The following morning, they went out again with Micum wearing different disguises and searched the neighborhood where they’d nearly caught the old woman and her guardian. No one had seen any sign of them, though, and Seregil grumbled about the timing of Alaya’s death. The scent seemed to have gone cold. Given the ravens’ previous pattern, Seregil expected word of them being on the far side of the Harvest Market next and had Kepi spread the word to his compatriots that any news would be worth a silver half.

When they returned to the inn late that afternoon, Seregil noted at once that the horse yard was empty except for one exhausted, lathered black, and that there was no smoke coming from the kitchen chimney. Nor was there any of the usual bustle and noise coming through the open windows of the front room. Bad old memories of another too-quiet inn knotted his belly.

“That’s Kari’s horse,” Micum noted in surprise.

“I don’t like this,” muttered Seregil.

“Neither do I,” whispered Alec.

They approached the front of the house cautiously and peered in at the windows. The great room was empty, dishes and tankards still on the long tables as if everyone had left in a hurry.

Moving quietly, they went down the servants’ corridor to the kitchen and found Tomin whittling in front of the fire. He jumped to his feet as soon as they came in and Seregil saw a small pack at the innkeeper’s feet.

“What’s going on?” asked Alec.

Tomin fiddled nervously with his knife as he took in their beggar garb. “A woman came here with a little girl, and brought the sleeping death with her. Claimed she knew you, my lords. The house cleared as if it was on fire. I sent Ema and the baby to her mother’s house.”

“Where are the woman and girl?” Micum demanded.

“I put them in the front room upstairs.”

Micum was gone before Tomin had finished speaking, thundering up the front stairs. Seregil and Alec ran after him and caught up in time to hear their friend’s anguished cry.

Illia, dressed for play in the Watermead fields, lay on the bed, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Micum fell to his knees by the bed, clasping one of his daughter’s small hands in his big, callused ones.

Kari sat by the bed, pale as a ghost, her dark hair wild around her shoulders and dull with dust, as were her riding clothes. She looked not at her husband, but at Seregil. “How could this happen?”

“It’s—impossible!” Alec gasped.

“Clearly not,” Seregil managed. “Kari, how long has she been like this?”