"I thought you looked thin," Micum said with a chuckle as they went in.

"Not quite your Wheel Street villa, is it?" Beka remarked, gesturing around the cabin's single room.

Alec grinned. "Call it an exercise in austerity. The snow got so deep this past winter we had to cut a hole in the roof to get out. Still, it's better than a lot of places we've been."

The place was certainly a far cry from the comfortably cluttered rooms he and Seregil had shared at the Cockerel, or Seregil's fine Wheel Street villa. A low-slung bed took up nearly a quarter of the floor. A rickety table stood near it, with crates and stools serving as chairs. Shelves, hooks, and a few battered chests held their modest belongings. Squares of oiled parchment were nailed over the two tiny windows to keep out the drafts. In the stone fireplace a kettle bubbled on an iron hook over the flames.

"I looked in at Wheel Street last month," Micum remarked as they crowded around the table. "Old Runcer's been ailing, but he still manages to keep the place just as you left it. A grandson of his helps out around the place now."

Seregil shifted uncomfortably, guessing that his friend had meant the statement as more than a casual remark. The house was his last remaining tie in Rhiminee. Like Thryis, old Runcer had kept his master's secrets and covered his tracks, enabling Seregil to come and go as he pleased without arousing suspicion.

"Where does he say we've been all this time?" he asked.

"By last report, you were at Ivywell, watching over Sir Alec's interests and providing horses to the Skalan army," Micum said, giving Alec a wink. Ivywell was the fictitious Mycenian estate bequeathed to Alec by his bucolic and equally fictitious father. This obscure squire had supposedly made Lord Seregil of Rhiminee the guardian of his only son. Seregil and Micum had concocted both tale and title over wine one night to explain Alec's sudden appearance in Rhiminee. Given the insignificance of the title and locale, no one had ever questioned it.

"What's said of the Rhiminee Cat?" asked Seregil.

Micum chuckled. "After six months or so, rumors began to go round that he must be dead. You may be the only nightrunner ever mourned by nobility. I gather there was a significant lapse of intrigues among that class in the wake of your disappearance."

Here was one more reason not to return. Seregil's clandestine work as the Cat had made his fortune. His work as one of Nysander's Watchers had given him purpose, while the public role he'd played as foppish Lord Seregil, the only one left him now, had become increasingly burdensome.

"I suppose I should sell the place off, but I don't have the heart to put Runcer out. It's been more his home than mine. Perhaps I'll deed the house over to your Elsbet when she finishes her training at the temple. She'd keep him on."

Micum patted Seregil's hand. "It's a kind thought, but won't you be needing it again, one of these days?"

Seregil looked down at the big freckled hand covering his own and shook his head. "You know that's not going to happen."

"How is everyone out at Watermead?" Alec asked.

Micum sat back and tucked his hands under his belt. "Well enough, except for missing the pair of you."

"I've missed them, too," Seregil admitted. Watermead had been a second home to him, Kari and her three daughters a second family. They'd claimed Alec as one of their own from the first day the boy had set foot in their house.

"Elsbet's still in Rhiminee. She took sick in the plague that swept through last winter, but came through it whole," Micum went on. "Temple life suits her. She's thinking of becoming an initiate. Kari has her hands full with the two babes, but Illia's old enough to help now. It's a good thing, too. Ever since Gherin learned to walk he's been trying to keep up with his foster brother. That Luthas has the gift of mischief. Kari found them halfway down to the river one morning."

Seregil smiled. "Shades of things to come, I'd say, with you for a father."

They chatted on for a while, exchanging news and stories as if this were some casual visit. Presently, however, Seregil turned to Beka.

"I suppose you'd better tell me more. You say Klia's in charge of this delegation?"

"Yes. Urgazhi Turma's been assigned as her honor guard."

"But why Klia?" Alec asked. "She's the youngest."

"A cynical person might say that makes her the most expendable," Micum remarked.

"She or Korathan would be whom I'd choose, in any case," Seregil mused. "They're the smartest of the pack, they've proven

themselves in battle, and they carry themselves with authority. I assume Torsin will go, along with a wizard or two?"

"Lord Torsin is in Aurenen already. As for wizards, they're as hard to spare in the field as generals these days, so she's taking only Thero," Beka replied, and Seregil knew she was watching him for a reaction.

And with good reason, he thought. Thero had succeeded him as Nysander's pupil after Seregil had failed in that capacity. They'd disliked one another on sight and bickered like jealous brothers for years. Yet they'd ended up in each other's debt after Mardus had kidnapped Thero and Alec. From what Alec had told him afterward, they'd kept each other alive through a horrific journey, long enough for Alec to escape before the final battle on that lonely stretch of Plenimaran coast. Nysander's death had laid their rivalry to rest, yet each remained a living reminder to the other of what had been lost.

Seregil looked hopefully at Micum. "You're coming, aren't you?"

Micum studied a hangnail. "Not invited. I'm just here to convince you to go. You'll have to make do with Beka this time out."

"I see." Seregil pushed his dish aside. "Well, I'll give you my answer in the morning. Now, who's for a game of Sword and Coin? It's no fun playing with Alec anymore. He knows all my cheats."

For a time Seregil was able to lose himself in the simple enjoyment of the game, the pleasure made all the more precious by the knowledge that this moment of peace was a fleeting one.

He'd enjoyed their long respite. He often felt as if he'd stepped from his world into the one Alec had known before they'd met: a simpler life of hunting, wandering, and hard physical work. They'd found enough mischief to get into along the way to keep up their nightrunning skills, but mostly they'd done honest work.

And made love. Seregil smiled down at his cards, thinking how many times he and Alec had lain tangled together in countless inns, by countless fires under the stars, or on the bed Micum was currently using as a seat. Or on the soft spring grass beneath the oaks down by the stream, or in the sweet hay of fall, or in the pool on the ridge, and once, floundering half-dressed in deep new snow under a reckless waxing moon that had broken their sleep for three nights running. Come to think of it, there weren't too many spots around here where the urge hadn't overtaken them one time or another.

They'd come a long way from that first awkward kiss Alec had given him in Plenimar, but then, the boy had always been a fast learner.

"Those must be some good cards you're holding," said Micum, giving him a quizzical look. "Care to show us a few? It's your turn."

Seregil played a ten pip and Micum captured it, cackling triumphantly.

Seregil watched his old friend with a mix of sadness and affection. Micum had been about Beka's age when they first met—a tall, amiable wanderer who'd happily joined Seregil in his adventures, if not in his bed. Now silver hairs outnumbered the red in his friend's thick hair and mustache, and in the stubble on his cheeks.

Tirfaie, we call them: the short-lived ones. He watched Beka laughing with Alec, knowing he'd watch silver streak her wild red hair, too, while his was still dark. Or would, Sakor willing, if she survived the war.