If it was the former, he would do everything in his power to break her.
Niclays spent a restless night in the Governor of Cape Hisan’s mansion. The bedding was far more luxurious than what he had in Orisima, but rain battered the tiled roof and would not give him peace. On top of that, it was insufferably humid, as it always was in the Seiikinese summer.
Sometime in the small hours, he rose from the clammy heap of bedding and moved the window screen aside. The breeze was warm and thick as caudle, but at least he could see the stars. And think.
No educated person could believe in ghosts. Quacks professed that the spirits of the dead lived in an element called ether—pure drivel. Yet there was a whisper in his ear that he knew to be Jannart, telling him that what he had done to that musician was a crime.
Ghosts were the voices the dead left behind. Echoes of a soul taken too soon.
Jannart would have lied to keep the musician safe. Then again, Jannart had been good at lying. Most of his life had been a performance. Thirty years of lying to Truyde. To Oscarde.
And of course, to Aleidine.
Niclays shivered. A chill rumbled through his belly when he remembered the look in her eyes at the entombment. She had known all along. She had known and said nothing.
It is not her fault my heart belongs to you, Jannart had told him once, and he had spoken true. Like many unions among those of noble blood, theirs had been arranged by their families. The betrothal had been sealed the day Jannart turned twenty, a year before Niclays had met him.
He had not been able to face going to the wedding. The knot in the strings of their fates had tortured him. If only he had arrived at court sooner, they might have been companions.
He snorted. As if the Marquess of Zeedeur would have been allowed to wed a penniless nobody from Rozentun. Aleidine had been a commoner, but her hand in marriage had come with jewels on it. Niclays, fresh out of university, would have brought the family nothing but debt.
Aleidine must be past sixty by now. Her auburn hair would be laced with silver, her mouth framed by lines. Oscarde was at least forty. Saint, how the years flew.
The breeze did nothing to cool him down. Defeated, he closed the screen and lay back on the bedding.
The warmth basted his skin. He willed himself to sleep, but his mind refused to quiet, and a low fire burned in his ankle.
By morning, there was no sign of the storm ending. He watched it water the grounds of the mansion. The servants brought him bean curd, grilled loach, and barley tea to break his fast.
At noon, a servant informed him that the Governor had granted his request. He was to visit Triam Sulyard in the jailhouse and mine what information he could from the boy. The servants also provided him with a new walking cane, made of a stronger, lighter wood. He begged a little water of them. They brought it to him in a gourd.
A closed palanquin took him to the jailhouse at dusk. Safe inside his box, Niclays peered through the blinds.
In seven years, he had never taken a step into Cape Hisan. He had heard its music and its chatter, glimpsed its lights—like fallen stars—and longed to walk its streets, but it had remained a mystery to him. His world had been closed in a fist of high walls.
The lanternlight revealed a bustling city. In Orisima, he had been surrounded by reminders of Mentendon. Now he remembered just how far from home he was. No Western settlement smelled of cedarwood or sinking incense. No Western settlement sold squid ink or iridescent floats for fishing.
And of course, no Western city paid tribute to dragons. Signs of their presence were everywhere. Merchants touted amulets on every corner, promising luck and succor from the lords of sea and rain. Almost every street housed a driftwood shrine and a basin of salt water.
The palanquin stopped outside the jailhouse. Once it was unlocked, Niclays climbed out and slapped a gnat away from his face. A pair of prison sentinels hurried him through the gate.
The first thing that hit him was the eye-watering odor of shit and piss. He gathered one sleeve to his nose and mouth. When they passed the execution ground, the strength deserted his legs. Rotting heads were displayed on a stand, tongues swollen like curl grubs.
Sulyard had been hidden in an underground room. He lay prone in his cell, a cloth around his waist. The sentinels were good enough to hand Niclays a lantern before they left.
Their footsteps receded into the black. Niclays knelt and gripped one of the wooden bars.
“Sulyard.” He rapped his cane on the floor. “Look lively.”
Nothing. Niclays slotted his cane through the bars and gave Sulyard a firm prod. He stirred.
“Truyde,” he murmured.
“Sorry to disappoint. It’s Roos.”
There was a pause. “Doctor Roos.” Sulyard unfolded himself. “I thought I was dreaming.”
“Would that you were.”
Sulyard was in bad shape. His face had bloated like dough in the oven, and his brow had been inked with the characters for trespasser. Dried blood laddered his back and thighs.
Sulyard had no protection from a prince across the sea. Niclays might have been shocked by the brutality once, but the nations of Virtudom used crueler means to mangle the truth from prisoners.
“Sulyard,” Niclays said, “tell me what you told the questioners.”
“Only the truth.” Sulyard coughed. “That I came ashore to beg the Warlord for help.”
“Not about that. About how you reached Orisima.” Niclays pressed closer. “The other woman—the first woman you saw, the one on the beach. Did you tell them about her?”
“No.”
It was all Niclays could do not to wring the blockhead by the throat. Instead, he opened the gourd.
“Drink.” He pushed it between the bars. “The first woman took you to the theatre district instead of reporting you. It was her crime that landed you in Orisima. You must be able to describe her—her face, her clothes, something. Help yourself, Sulyard.”
A blood-streaked hand reached for the gourd. “She had long, dark hair, and a scar at the top of her left cheek. Like a fishhook.” Sulyard drank. “I think . . . that she was of an age with me, or younger. She wore sandals and a coat of gray cloth over a black tunic.”
“Offer this information to your captors,” Niclays urged. “In exchange for your life. Help them find her, and they may show mercy.”
“I beseeched them to listen to me.” Sulyard seemed delirious. “I said I came from Her Majesty, that I was her ambassador, that my ship foundered. None of them would listen.”
“Even if you were a real ambassador, which you clearly are not, they would not welcome you.” Niclays glanced over his shoulder. The sentinels would soon come back for him. “Listen carefully now, Sulyard. The Governor of Cape Hisan is sending me to the capital while this matter is investigated. Let me take your message to the Warlord.”
Fresh tears filled his eyes. “You would do that for me, Doctor Roos?”
“If you tell me more about your undertaking. Tell me why you believe Sabran needs an alliance with Seiiki.”
He had no idea if he would be able to keep his word, but he needed to know exactly why this boy was here. What Truyde had conspired with him to do.
“Thank you.” Sulyard reached between the bars and took Niclays by the hand. “Thank you, Doctor Roos. The Knight of Fellowship blessed me with your company.”
“I’m sure,” Niclays said dryly.
He waited. Sulyard squeezed his hand and lowered his voice to the barest whisper.
“Truyde and I,” he began, “we— we believe the Nameless One will awaken very soon. That the endurance of the House of Berethnet was never what kept him imprisoned. That come what may, he will return, and that is why his servants have been stirring. They are answering his call.”
His lips trembled as he spoke. Expressing the idea that the House of Berethnet was not what kept the Nameless One at bay was high treason in Virtudom.
“What led you to believe this?” Niclays a
sked, stumped. “What doomsinger has frightened you, boy?”
“Not a doomsinger. Books. Your books, Doctor Roos.”
“Mine?”
“Yes. The books on alchemy you left behind,” Sulyard whispered. “Truyde and I were planning to find you in Orisima. The Knight of Fellowship took me to your side. Do you not see that this is a divine mission?”
“No, I do not, you witless cabbage.”
“But—”
“You really thought the rulers of the East would be more sympathetic to this mad-born proposal than Sabran?” Niclays sneered. “You thought you would cross the Abyss and risk your heads . . . because the two of you leafed through a few books on alchemy. Books that take alchemists decades, if not lifetimes, to understand. If they ever do.”
He almost pitied Sulyard for his folly. He was young and love-drunk. The boy must have convinced himself that he was like Lord Wulf Glenn or Sir Antor Dale, the romantic heroes of Inysh history, and must honor his lady by charging headlong into danger.
“Please, Doctor Roos, I beg you, hear me. Truyde does understand those books. She believes there is a natural balance in the world, as ancient alchemists did,” Sulyard prattled on. “She believes in your work, and she believes she has found a way to apply it to our world. To our history.”
Natural balance. He was referring to the words scored into the long-lost Tablet of Rumelabar, words that had fascinated alchemists for centuries.
What is below must be balanced by what is above,
and in this is the precision of the universe.
Fire ascends from the earth, light descends from the sky.
Too much of one doth inflame the other,
and in this is the extinction of the universe.
“Sulyard,” Niclays said through his teeth, “no one understands that wretched tablet. This is guesswork and folly.”
“I was not convinced at first, either. I was in denial. But when I saw the passion in Truyde—” Sulyard tightened his grip. “She explained it to me. That when the wyrms lost their flame and fell into their long sleep, the Eastern dragons grew strong. Now they are losing their strength once more, and the Draconic breeds are awakening. Do you not see? It is a cycle.”
Niclays looked again at that eamest face. Sulyard was not the author of this mission.
Truyde. It was Truyde. Her heart, and her mind, were the soil it had sprung from. How like her grandsire she had become. The obsession that had killed him had lived on in his blood.
“You are both fools,” he said hoarsely.
“No.”
“Yes.” His voice cracked. “If you know the dragons are losing strength, why on earth do you want help from them?”
“Because they are stronger than us, Doctor Roos. And we have a better chance with them than we do alone. If we are to have a hope of victory—”
“Sulyard,” Niclays said, softer, “stop. The Warlord will not hear this. Just as Sabran will not hear it.”
“I wanted to try. The Knight of Courage t-teaches us to raise our voices when others fear to speak.” Sulyard shook his head, tears welling. “Were we wrong to hope, Doctor Roos?”
Suddenly Niclays felt exhausted. This man was going to die in vain a world away from home. There was only one thing to do. Lie.
“It is true that they trade with Mentendon. Perhaps they will listen.” Niclays patted the grimy hand that held his. “Forgive an old man his cynicism, Sulyard. I see your passion. I am convinced of your sincerity. I will ask for an audience with the Warlord and put your case to him.”
Sulyard pushed his weight on to his elbow. “Doctor Roos—” His voice thickened. “Will they not kill you?”
“I will risk it. The Seiikinese respect my knowledge as an anatomist, and I am a lawful settler,” Niclays said. “Let me try. I suspect the worst they will do to me is laugh.”
Tears filled those bloodshot eyes. “I do not know how to thank you.”
“I have a way.” Niclays grasped his shoulder. “At least try to save yourself. When they come for you, tell them about the woman on the beach. Swear to me that you will tell them.”
Sulyard nodded. “I swear it.” He pressed a kiss to Niclays’s hand. “The Saint bless you, Doctor Roos. There is a seat for you at his Great Table beside the Knight of Courage.”
“He can keep it,” Niclays muttered. He could envision no greater torment than feasting with a circle of dead braggarts for eternity.
As for the Saint, he would have his work cut out if he meant to save this wretch.
He heard the sentinels approaching and withdrew. Sulyard set his cheek on the floor.
“Thank you, Doctor Roos. For giving me hope.”
“Good luck, Triam the Fool,” Niclays said quietly, and allowed himself to be marched back into the rain.
Another palanquin was waiting at the jailhouse gates. It was far less grand than the one that had taken him to the Governor, borne by four new chair-carriers. One of them bowed to him.
“Learnèd Doctor Roos,” she said, “we have orders to return you to the honored Governor of Cape Hisan, so you might report what you have learned. After that, we will take you to Ginura.”
Niclays nodded, tired to his bones. He would tell the Governor of Cape Hisan only that the outsider wished to help identify a second person who had aided him. That was where his involvement ended.
As he hoisted himself into the palanquin, Niclays wondered if he would ever see Triam Sulyard again. For Truyde’s sake, he hoped so.
For his own sake, he rather hoped not.
14
West
Shortly after the heralds took news of the betrothal across Inys, Aubrecht Lievelyn sent word that he was preparing to sail with his retinue, which comprised some eight hundred people. The days that followed were a round-wind of preparation such as Ead had never known.
Food came by the bargeload from the Leas and the Downs. The Glade family sent casks of wine from their vineyards. The Extraordinary Chamberers, who might be asked to serve in the Upper Household on special occasions—significant anniversaries, the Holy Feasts—took up residence at court. New gowns were made for the queen and her ladies. Every corner of Ascalon Palace was spruced and polished, down to the last candlestick. For the first time, it seemed Queen Sabran was serious about accepting a suit. Excitement burned through the palace like a ground fire.
Ead tried her utmost to keep pace. Though the fever had drained her, the Royal Physician had personally approved her return to duty. Yet more proof that Inysh physicians were quacks.
At least Truyde utt Zeedeur was keeping her head down. Ead had heard no more rumors about sorcery.
For now, she was safe.
There were nearly a thousand residents at court at any time of the year, but as Ead traversed the palace with baskets of flowers and armfuls of cloth-of-silver, she seemed to be passing more and more people. She watched every day for the golden banners of the Ersyr, and the man who would come under them, disguised as an ambassador to King Jantar and Queen Saiyma. Chassar uq-Ispad, who had brought her to Inys.
First came the guests from elsewhere in the queendom. The Earls Provincial and their families were among the most recognizable. As she entered the cloisters one morning, Ead spotted Lord Ranulf Heath the Younger, cousin to the late Queen Rosarian, on the other side of the garth. He was deep in conversation with Lady Igrain Crest. As she often did at court, Ead stopped to listen.
“And how is your companion, my lord?” Crest was saying.
“Sore disappointed not to be here, Your Grace, but he will join us soon,” Heath replied. His skin was brown and freckled, his beard shot with gray. “How happy that Her Majesty will soon know the same joy I found in companionship.”
“We can only hope. The Duke of Courtesy believes the alliance will serve to tighten the Chainmail of Virtudom,” Crest said, “though whether his intuition is correct has yet to be seen.”
“I would hope his intuition is unparalleled,” Heath said, chuckling, “given
his . . . particular role.”
“Oh, there are things that even Seyton misses,” Crest remarked, a rare smile on her face. “How thin his hair is getting, for instance. Even a hawk cannot see the back of its own head.” Heath stifled a laugh. “Of course, we all pray that Her Majesty will soon be delivered of a daughter.”
“Aye, but she’s young, Your Grace, and so is Lievelyn. Give them time to get to know each other first.”
Ead had to agree. Few Inysh seemed to care whether Sabran and Lievelyn knew each other from a stuffed capon, so long as they were wed.
“It is vital that we have an heir as soon as possible,” Crest said, as if on cue. “Her Majesty knows her duty on that front.”
“Well, no one has guided Her Majesty in her duty better than you, Your Grace.”
“You are too kind. She has been my pride and joy. Alas,” Crest said, “that mine is no longer the only counsel she heeds. Our young queen is determined to go her own way.”
“As we all must, Your Grace.”
They parted. Ead scarcely had time to draw back before the duchess strode around the corner, almost headlong into her.
“Mistress Duryan.” Crest recovered. “Good morrow, my dear.”
Ead curtsied. “Your Grace.” Crest nodded and left the cloisters. Ead walked in the opposite direction.
Crest might well quip about Combe, but in truth, the Night Hawk missed nothing. It struck Ead as extraordinary that he could have failed to see who was hiring the cutthroats.
She slowed as a possibility occurred to her. For the first time, she considered that Combe himself might be the architect behind the attacks. He would have had the means to arrange them. To bring people unseen into the court, just as he swept others out. He had also taken charge of interrogating the surviving cutthroats. And disposing of them.
There was no reason Combe should wish Sabran dead. He was a descendant of the Holy Retinue, his power tied to the House of Berethnet . . . but perhaps he believed he could grasp even more if the Queen of Inys fell. If Sabran died childless, the people would give way to fear that the Nameless One was coming. In chaos like that, the Night Hawk could rise.
The Priory of the Orange Tree Page 16
