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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, but there’s boiled leeks out of the garden to go with it.”
    “Don’t trouble yourself. We’re going out again,” Alec told her.
    Hopefully Thero would offer them something to eat later; Ema was a good soul, but they liked her more for her discretion than her cooking, which was worse than usual with the shortages. At least she hadn’t boiled salt cod and onions today, or pickled any more beets, the smells of which made Seregil queasy.
    Alec fetched a bucket of water from the cistern while Seregil lit a candle to light their way up the staircase that led from the lading room to the box room on the second floor. A hidden panel in the far wall concealed the narrow staircase that led up to their chambers. Thero frequently changed the passwords on the hidden glyphs that guarded the stairs for them.
    “Scera,”
Seregil said at the first one—Aurënfaie for “cold.” He always used ’faie words, figuring any Skalan who blundered in here was less likely to guess in that language.Only once, when the Cockerel Inn had stood on this site, had anyone gotten past them, with tragic results. The current ones were wishful thinking in the summer heat.
    “Por.”
Snow.
“Taka.”
Cool water.
“Ura teshil.”
Miserable bastard.
    Reaching the landing, he spoke the last.
“Temi.”
Ice.
    The large sitting room was hot and stale. There were, in fact, windows, but obscured with Thero’s magic, which rendered them invisible from the outside even when Alec opened the shutters to catch what