The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)

The Alabastrine Tower was one of the highest in Ascalon Palace. At the top of its winding staircase was the Council Chamber, round and airy, its windows framed by sheer drapes.

Ead was escorted through the doorway as the clock tower struck half past nine. As well as one of her finer gowns, she wore a modest ruff and her only carcanet.

A portrait of the Saint gazed down from a wall. Sir Galian Berethnet, direct ancestor to Sabran. Raised aloft in his hand was Ascalon, the True Sword, namesake of the capital.

Ead thought he looked a thorough dolt.

The Virtues Council comprised three bodies. Most powerful were the Dukes Spiritual, each from one of the families descended from a member of the Holy Retinue—the six knights of Galian Berethnet—and each of those was the guardian of one of the Virtues of Knighthood. Next were the Earls Provincial—the heads of the noble families who controlled the six counties of Inys—and the Knights Bachelor, who were born commoners.

Today, only four members of the council sat at the table that dominated the chamber.

The Lady Usher tapped her staff.

“Mistress Ead Duryan,” she said. “An Ordinary Servant of Her Majesty’s Privy Chamber.”

The Queen of Inys was at the head of the table. Her lips were painted red as blood.

“Mistress Duryan,” she said.

“Your Majesty.” Ead gave her obeisance. “Your Graces.”

“Do sit.”

As she took a seat, Ead caught the eye of Sir Tharian Lintley, Captain of the Knights of the Body, who offered a reassuring smile from his post by the doors. Like most members of the Royal Guard, Lintley was tall, robust, and had no shortage of admirers at court. He had been in love with Margret since she had arrived, and Ead knew she returned his affection, but the difference in station had kept them apart.

“Mistress Duryan,” Lord Seyton Combe said, eyebrows raised. The Duke of Courtesy was seated to the left of the queen. “Are you unwell?”

“Your pardon, my lord?”

“There are shadows under your eyes.”

“I am very well, Your Grace. Only a little tired after the excitement of the Mentish visit.”

Combe took the measure of her over the rim of his cup. Close to sixty, with eyes like storms, a sallow complexion, and a near-lipless mouth, the Principal Secretary was a formidable presence. It was said that if a plot was hatched against Queen Sabran in the morning, he would have the accomplices on the rack by noon. A pity the master of cutthroats still eluded him.

“Indeed. An unforeseen visit, but a pleasant one,” Combe said, and a mild smile returned to his lips. All his expressions were mild. Like wine tempered with water. “We have already questioned many members of the royal household, but we thought it prudent to leave Her Majesty’s ladies until last, busy as you were during the Mentish visit.”

Ead held his gaze. Combe might speak the language of secrets, but he did not know hers.

Lady Igrain Crest, the Duchess of Justice, sat on the other side of the queen. She had been the chief influence on Sabran during her minority after the death of Queen Rosarian, and had apparently had a great hand in molding her into a paragon of virtue.

“Now that Mistress Duryan has arrived,” she said, with a smile at Ead, “perhaps we can begin.”

Crest had the same fine bone structure and azure eyes as her granddaughter, Roslain—though her hair, frizzled at the temples, had long since turned silver. Small lines were notched around her lips, which were nearly as pale as the rest of her face.

“Indeed,” Lady Nelda Stillwater said. The Duchess of Courage was a full-figured woman, with skin of a deep brown and a head of dark curls. A carcanet of rubies glistered around her neck. “Mistress Duryan, a man was found dead at the threshold of the Great Bedchamber the night before last. He was holding an Yscali-made dagger.”

A parrying dagger, specifically. In duels, they were used in place of a shield, to protect and defend the wielder, but they could also kill. Each cutthroat had carried one.

“It seems he meant to kill Her Majesty,” Stillwater said, “but was himself killed.”

“Terrible,” the Duke of Generosity muttered. Lord Ritshard Eller, at least ninety, wore thick furs even in summer. From what Ead had observed, he was also a sanctimonious fool.

She schooled her features. “Another cutthroat?”

“Yes,” Stillwater said, her brow creasing. “As you will no doubt have heard, this has happened more than once in the past year. Of the nine would-be killers that have gained entry to Ascalon Palace, five were slain before they could be apprehended.”

“It is all very strange,” Combe said, musingly, “but it seems sensible to conclude that someone in the Upper Household killed the knave.”

“A noble deed,” Ead said.

Crest snorted. “Hardly, my dear,” she said. “This protector, whoever it is, is a killer as well, and they must be unmasked.” Her voice was thin with frustration. “Like the cutthroat, this person entered the royal apartments unseen, somehow eluding the Knights of the Body. They then committed a murder and left the corpse for Her Majesty to find. Did they intend to frighten our queen to death?”

“I imagine they intended to stop our queen being stabbed to death, Your Grace.”

Sabran lifted an eyebrow.

“The Knight of Justice frowns upon all bloodshed, Mistress Duryan,” Crest said. “If whoever has been killing cutthroats had only come to us, we might have forgiven them, but their refusal to reveal themselves speaks of sinister intent. We will know who they are.”

“We are relying on witnesses to help us, mistress. This incident happened the night before last, about midnight,” Combe said. “Tell me, did you see or hear anything suspicious?”

“Nothing comes to mind, Your Grace.”

Sabran had not stopped looking at her. The scrutiny made Ead a little warm under her ruff.

“Mistress Duryan,” Combe said, “you have been a loyal servant at court. I sincerely doubt that Ambassador uq-Ispad would have presented Her Majesty with a lady who was not of faultless character. Nonetheless, I must warn you that silence now is an act of treason. Do you know anything about this cutthroat? Have you heard anyone expressing dislike for Her Majesty, or sympathy toward the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin?”

“No, Your Grace,” Ead said, “but if I should hear of any whispers, I will bring them to your door.”

Combe exchanged a look with Sabran.

“Good day to you, mistress,” the queen said. “Attend to your duties.”

Ead curtsied and left the chamber. Lintley closed the doors behind her.

There were no guards here; they waited at the base of the tower. Ead made certain her footfalls were loud as she walked to the stair, but stopped after the first few steps.

She had sharper hearing than most. A perquisite of the lingering magic in her blood.

“—seems truthful,” Crest was saying, “but I have heard that some Ersyris dabble in the forbidden arts.”

“Oh, rot,” Combe interjected. “You don’t really believe in talk of alchemy and sorcery.”

“As Duchess of Justice, I must consider every possibility, Seyton. We all know the cutthroats are an Yscali enterprise, of course—no one has stronger motivation than the Yscals to see Her Majesty slain—but we must also root out this protector, who kills with such manifest expertise. I would be very interested to speak with them about where they learned their . . . craft.”

“Mistress Duryan has always been a diligent lady-in-waiting, Igrain,” Sabran said. “If you have no evidence that she was involved, perhaps we should move on.”

“As you decree, Your Majesty.”

Ead released a long-held breath.

Her secret was safe. No one had witnessed her entering the royal apartments that night. Moving unseen was another of her gifts, for with flame came the subtlety of shadow.

Sound from below. Armored feet on the stair. The Knights of the Body, carrying out their rounds.

She needed somewhere less open to eavesdrop. Swiftly, she descended to the next floor and slipped on to a balcony.

“… is of an age with you, by all accounts very pleasant and intelligent, and a sovereign of Virtudom.” Combe. “As you know, Majesty, the last five Berethnet queens have taken Inysh consorts. There has not been a foreign match for more than two centuries.”

“You sound concerned, Your Grace,” Sabran said. “Do you have so little faith in the charms of Inysh men that you are surprised my ancestors chose them as consorts?”

Chuckles.

“As an Inysh man myself, I must protest that assessment,” Combe said lightly, “but times have changed. A foreign match is critical. Now our oldest ally has betrayed the true religion, we must show the world that the remaining three countries who swear allegiance to the Saint will stand together, come what may, and that none will support Yscalin in its misguided belief that the Nameless One will return.”

“There is danger in their claim,” Crest said. “The Easterners venerate wyrms. They may be tempted by the idea of an alliance with a Draconic territory.”

“I think you misjudge the danger of that, Igrain,” Stillwater said. “Last I heard, the Easterners still feared the Draconic plague.”

“So did Yscalin once.”

“What is certain,” Combe cut in, “is we cannot afford any signs of weakness. If you were to wed Lievelyn, Majesty, it would send a message that the Chainmail of Virtudom has never been tighter.”

“The Red Prince trades with wyrm-worshippers,” Sabran said. “Surely it would be unwise to give our implicit approval to such a practice. Especially now. Do you not agree, Igrain?”

As she listened, Ead had to smile. Already the queen had found an issue with her suitor.

“Though producing an heir as soon as possible is the bounden duty of a Berethnet, I do agree, Your Majesty. Wisely observed,” Crest said, her tone motherly. “Lievelyn is unworthy of the scion of the Saint. His trade with Seiiki shames all Virtudom. If we imply our tolerance of this heresy, we may embolden those who love the Nameless One. Lievelyn was also—lest we forget—engaged to the Donmata Marosa, who is now the heir to a Draconic territory. An affection may remain.”

A Knight of the Body walked past the balcony. Ead pressed herself flat to the wall.

“The engagement was broken off the moment Yscalin betrayed the faith,” Combe spluttered. “As for the Eastern trade, the House of Lievelyn would not trade with Seiiki unless it were essential. The Vatten might have brought Mentendon into the faith, but they also beggared it. If we gave the Mentish favorable terms in an alliance, and if a royal match were on the horizon, perhaps the trade could be broken off.”

“My dear Seyton, it is not necessity that compels the Mentish, but greed. They enjoy having a monopoly on trade with the East. Besides, we can hardly be expected to prop them up indefinitely,” Crest said. “No, there is no need to discuss Lievelyn. A far stronger match—which I have long advocated to you, Majesty—is the High Chieftain of Askrdal. We must keep our links with Hróth strong.”

“He is seventy years old,” Stillwater said, sounding dismayed.

“And did Glorian Shieldheart not wed Guma Vetalda, who was four and seventy?” Eller piped up.

“Indeed she did, and he gave her a healthy child.” Crest sounded pleased. “Askrdal would bring experience and wisdom that Lievelyn, prince of a young realm, would not.”

After a pause, Sabran spoke. “Are there no other suits?”

There was a long silence. “Rumor of your familiarity with Lord Arteloth has spread, Majesty,” Eller said, his voice tremulous. “Some believe you may be secretly wed to—”

“Spare me, Your Grace, from baseless gossip. And from talk of Lord Arteloth,” Sabran said. “He has left court without reason or warning. I will not hear of him.”

Another tense silence.

“Your Majesty,” Combe said, “my intelligencers have informed me that Lord Arteloth has boarded a ship bound for Yscalin, accompanied by Lord Kitston Glade. Apparently, he discovered my intention to send a spy to find your lord father . . . but believed himself to be the only man fit for a mission that touches Your Majesty so closely.”

Yscalin.

For a terrible moment, Ead could not move or breathe.

Loth.

“It may be for the best,” Combe continued into the stillness. “Lord Arteloth’s absence will allow rumors of an affair between you to cool—and it is high time we knew what was happening in Yscalin. And whether your lord father, Prince Wilstan, is alive.”

Combe was lying. Loth could not have just stumbled upon a plot to send a spy to Yscalin and decided to go himself. The idea was absurd. Not only would Loth never be so reckless, but the Night Hawk would never allow such plans to be discovered.

He had contrived this.

“Something is not right,” Sabran finally said. “It is not like Loth to behave so rashly. And I find it exceedingly difficult to believe that none of you guessed his intentions. Are you not my councillors? Do you not have eyes in every corner of my court?”

The next silence was as thick as marchpane.

“I asked you to send someone to retrieve my father two years ago, Lord Seyton,” the queen said, softer. “You told me the risk was too great.”

“I feared it was, Majesty. Now I think a risk is needful if we are to know the truth.”

“Lord Arteloth is not to be risked.” There was marked strain in her voice. “You will send your retainers after him. To bring him back to Inys. You must stop him, Seyton.”

“Forgive me, Majesty, but he will be in Draconic territory by now. It is quite impossible to send anyone to retrieve Lord Arteloth without betraying to the Vetalda that he is there on unsanctioned business, which they will already suspect. We would only endanger his life.”

Ead swallowed the tightness in her throat. Not only had Combe sent Loth away, but he had sent him to a place where Sabran had lost all influence. There was nothing she could do. Not when Yscalin was now an unpredictable enemy, capable of destroying the fragile peace in a heartbeat.

“Your Majesty,” Stillwater said, “I understand that this news has pained you, but we must make a final decision on the suit.”

“Her Majesty has already decided against Lievelyn,” Crest cut in. “Askrdal is the only—”

“I must insist upon further discussion, Igrain. Lievelyn is a better candidate, in many respects, and I would not see him dismissed.” Stillwater spoke in clipped tones. “This is a delicate subject, Majesty, forgive me—but you must have a successor, and soon, to reassure your people and secure the throne for another generation. The need would not be half so urgent if not for the attempts on your life. If you only had a daughter—”

“Thank you for your concern, Your Grace,” Sabran said curtly, “but I am not yet recovered enough from seeing a corpse by my bed to discuss its use for childing.” A chair scraped on the floor, followed by four others. “You may question Lady Linora at your leisure.”

“Majesty—” Combe began.

“I would break my fast. Good morrow.”

Ead was back inside and descending before the doors to the Council Chamber opened. At the base of the tower, she walked down the path, her heart beating hard.

Margret would be devastated when she found out. Her brother was too naïve, too gentle, to be a spy in the court of the Vetalda.

He was not long for this world.

In the Queen Tower, the royal household danced to the dawn chorus. Grooms and maids crisscrossed between rooms. The scent of rising bread poured from the Privy Kitchen. Swallowing her bitterness as best she could, Ead edged her way through the Presence Chamber, where petitioners were packed tight, as always, waiting for the queen.

Ead sensed her warding as she approached the Great Bedchamber. They were laid like traps across the palace. For the first year at court, she had been a tattered nerve, unable to sleep as they rang with movement, but little by little, she had learned to recognize the sensations they sparked in her, and to shift them as if on a counting frame. She had taught herself to notice only when someone was out of place. Or when a stranger came to court.

Inside, Margret was stripping the bed, and Roslain Crest was shaking out plain-woven cloths. Sabran must be near her blood—the monthly reminder that she was not yet swollen with an heir.

Ead joined Margret in her work. She had to tell her about Loth, but it would have to wait until they were alone.

“Mistress Duryan,” Roslain said, breaking the silence.

Ead straightened. “My lady.”

“Lady Katryen has taken ill this morning.” The Chief Gentlewoman hooked one of the cloths on to a silk girdle. “You will taste Her Majesty’s food in her stead.”

Margret frowned.

“Of course,” Ead said calmly.

This was punishment for her deviation during the storytelling. The Ladies of the Bedchamber were rewarded in kind for the risks they took as food-tasters, but for a chamberer, it was a thankless and dangerous chore.

For Ead, it was also an opportunity.

On her way to the Royal Solarium, another opportunity presented itself. Truyde utt Zeedeur was walking behind two other maids of honor. When Ead passed, she took her by the shoulder and drew her aside, breathing into her ear, “Meet me after orisons tomorrow evening, or I will see to it that Her Majesty receives your letters.”

When the other maids of honor looked back, Truyde smiled, as if Ead had told her a joke. Sharp little fox.

“Where?” she said, still smiling.

“The Privy Stair.”

They parted ways.

The Royal Solarium was a quiet haven. Three of its walls jutted out from the Queen Tower, providing a peerless view of the Inysh capital, Ascalon, and the river that wound through it. Columns of stone and woodsmoke rose from its streets. Some two hundred thousand souls called the city their home.

Ead seldom went out there. It was not proper for ladies-in-waiting to be seen quibbling with merchants and toeing through filth.

The sun cast shadows on the floor. The queen was silhouetted at her table, alone but for the Knights of the Body in the doorway. Their partizans crossed in front of Ead.

“Mistress,” one of them said, “you are not due to serve Her Majesty’s meal today.”

Before she could explain, Sabran called, “Who is that?”

“Mistress Ead Duryan, Your Majesty. Your chamberer.”

Silence. Then: “Let her pass.”

The knights stood aside at once. Ead approached the queen, the heels of her shoes making no sound.

“Good morrow, Your Majesty.” She curtsied.

Sabran had already looked back at her gold-enameled prayer book. “Kate should be here.”

“Lady Katryen has taken ill.”

“She was my bedfellow last night. I would know if she was ill.”

“Lady Roslain says it is so,” Ead said. “If it please you, I will taste your food today.”

When she received no reply, Ead sat. This close to Sabran, she could smell her pomander, stuffed with orris root and clove. The Inysh believed such perfumes could ward off illness.

They sat in silence for some time. Sabran’s breast rose and fell steadily, but the set of her jaw betrayed her anger.

“Majesty,” Ead finally said, “this may be too bold, but you seem not to be in high spirits today.”

“It is far too bold. You are here to see that my food is not poisoned, not to remark upon my spirits.”

“Forgive me.”

“I have been too forgiving.” Sabran snapped her book shut. “You clearly pay no heed to the Knight of Courtesy, Mistress Duryan. Perhaps you are no true convert. Perhaps you only pay empty service to my ancestor, while you secretly hold with a false religion.”

She had been here for only a minute, and already Ead was walking on quicksand.

“Madam,” she said carefully, “Queen Cleolind, your ancestor, was a crown princess of Lasia.”

“There is no need for you to remind me of that. Do you think me a halfwit?”

“I meant no such insult,” Ead said. Sabran set her prayer book to one side. “Queen Cleolind was noble and good of heart. It was through no fault of hers that she knew nothing of the Six Virtues when she was born. I may be naïve, but rather than punishing them, surely we should pity those in ignorance and lead them to the light.”

“Indeed,” Sabran said dryly. “The light of the pyre.”

“If you mean to put me to the stake, madam, then I am sorry for it. I hear we Ersyris make very poor kindling. We are like sand, too used to the sun to burn.”

The queen looked at her. Her gaze dipped to the brooch on her gown.

“You take the Knight of Generosity as your patron.”

Ead touched it.

“Yes,” she said. “As one of your ladies, I give you my loyalty, Majesty. To give, one must be generous.”

“Generosity. The same as Lievelyn.” Sabran said this almost to herself. “You may yet prove more giving than certain other ladies. First Ros insisted upon getting with child, so she was too tired to serve me, then Arbella could not walk with me, and now Kate feigns illness. I am reminded every day that none of them calls Generosity their patron.”

Ead knew Sabran was angry, but it still took considerable restraint not to empty the wine over her head. The Ladies of the Bedchamber sacrificed a great deal to attend on the queen around the clock. They tasted her food and tried on her gowns, risking their own lives. Katryen, one of the most desirable women at court, would likely never take a companion. As for Arbella, she was seventy years old, had served both Sabran and her mother, and still would not retire.

Ead was spared from answering by the arrival of the meal. Truyde utt Zeedeur was among the maids of honor who would present it, but she refused to look at Ead.

Many Inysh customs had confounded her over the years, but royal meals were absurd. First, the queen was poured her choice of wine—then not one, not two, but eighteen dishes were offered to her. Wafer-thin cuts of brown meat. Currants stirred into frumenty. Pancakes with black honey, apple butter, or quail eggs. Salted fish from the Limber. Woodland strawberries on a bed of snow cream.

As always, Sabran chose only a round of goldenbread. A nod toward it was the only indication.

Silence. Truyde was gazing toward the window. One of the other maids of honor, looking panicked, jabbed her with her elbow. Jolted back to the task at hand, Truyde scooped up the goldenbread with a coverpane and set it on the royal plate with a curtsy. Another maid of honor served a whorl of buttersweet.

Now for the tasting. With a sly little smile, Truyde handed Ead the bone-handled knife.

First, Ead sipped the wine. Then she sampled the buttersweet. Both were unmeddled. Next, she cut off a piece of the bun and touched it with the tip of her tongue. A drop of the dowager would make the roof of the mouth prickle, dipsas parched the lips, and eternity dust—the rarest of poisons—gave each bite of food a cloying aftertaste.

There was nothing but dense bread inside. She slid the dishes before the queen and handed the tasting knife back to Truyde, who wiped it once and enclosed it in linen.

“Leave us,” Sabran said.

Glances were exchanged. The queen usually desired amusement or gossip from the maids of honor at mealtimes. As one, they curtsied and quit the room. Ead rose last.

“Not you.”

She sat again.

The sun was brighter now, filling the Royal Solarium with light. It danced in the jug of sweetbriar wine.

“Lady Truyde seems distracted of late.” Sabran looked toward the door. “Unwell, perhaps, like Kate. I would expect such ailments to strike the court in winter.”

“No doubt it is the rose fever, madam, no more. But Lady Truyde, I think, is more likely to be homesick,” Ead said. “Or . . . she may be sick in love, as young maids often are.”

“You cannot yet be old enough to say such things. What is your age?”

“Six and twenty, Majesty.”

“Not much younger than myself, then. And are you sick in love, as young maids often are?”

It might have sounded arch on different lips, but those eyes were as cold as the jewels at her throat.

“I fear an Inysh citizen would find it hard to love someone who was once sworn to another faith,” Ead answered after a moment.

It was not a light question Sabran had asked. Courting was a formal affair in Inys.

“Nonsense,” the queen said. The sun gleamed in her hair. “I understand you are close to Lord Arteloth. He told me the two of you have exchanged gifts at every Feast of Fellowship.”

“Yes, madam,” Ead said. “We are close. I was grieved to hear he had left the city.”

“He will return.” Sabran gave her an appraising glance. “Did he pay court to you?”

“No,” Ead said truthfully. “I consider Lord Arteloth a dear friend, and want no more than that. Even if I did, I am not of a fit station to wed the future Earl of Goldenbirch.”

“Indeed. Ambassador uq-Ispad told me that your blood was base.” Sabran sipped her wine. “You are not in love, then.”

A woman so quick to insult those beneath her must be vulnerable to flattery. “No, madam,” Ead said. “I am not here to squander time in pursuit of a companion. I am here to attend the most gracious Queen of Inys. That is more than enough.”

Sabran did not smile, but her face softened from its stern cast.

“Perhaps you would care to walk with me in the Privy Garden tomorrow,” she said. “That is, if Lady Arbella is still indisposed.”

“If it gives you pleasure, Majesty,” Ead said.

The cabin was only just large enough for two berths. A burly Ment delivered them a supper of salted beef, a thumb-sized fish apiece, and raveled bread, stale enough to splinter their teeth. Kit managed half his beef before he fled to the deck.

Midway into his bread, Loth gave up. This was a far cry from the sumptuous offerings at court, but vile food was the least of his worries. Combe was sending him to his doom, and for naught.

He had always known that the Night Hawk could make people vanish. People he perceived as a threat to the House of Berethnet, whether they behaved in a manner that disgraced their positions or craved more power than their due.

Even before Margret and Ead had warned him that the court was talking, Loth had known about the rumors. Rumors that he had seduced Sabran, that he had wed her in secret. Now the Dukes Spiritual sought a foreign match for her, and the hearsay, however baseless, was an impediment. Loth was a problem, and Combe had solved him.

There had to be some way to get word to Sabran. For now, however, he would have to concentrate on the task at hand. Learning to be a spy in Cárscaro.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Loth thought of all he knew about Lord Wilstan Fynch.

As a child, Sabran had never been close to her father. Neat and bearded, military in his bearing, Fynch had always seemed to Loth to embody the ideals of his ancestor, the Knight of Temperance. The prince consort had never been given to displays of emotion, but he had plainly cherished his family, and had made Loth and Roslain, who were closest of all to his daughter, feel that they were part of it.

When Sabran was crowned, their relationship had changed. Father and daughter often read together in the Privy Library, and he had counseled her on the affairs of the queendom. The death of Queen Rosarian had left a space in both their lives, and it was in that space that they had finally befriended one another—but that had not been quite enough for Fynch. Rosarian had been his guiding star, and without her, he had felt lost in the vastness of the Inysh court. He had asked Sabran for permission to take up residence in Yscalin as her ambassador, and had been content in that role ever since, writing to her every season. She had always looked forward to his letters from Cárscaro, where the House of Vetalda ruled over a joyful court. Loth supposed it must have been easier for Fynch to bury his grief away from the home he had shared with Rosarian.

His final letter had been different. He had told Sabran, in as many words, that he believed the Vetalda had been involved in killing Rosarian. That was the last anyone in Inys had heard from the Duke of Temperance before rock doves had flown out from Cárscaro, declaring that Yscalin now took the Nameless One as its god and master.

Loth meant to find out what had happened in that city. What had caused the break from Virtudom, and what had become of Fynch. Any information could be invaluable if Yscalin ever declared war on the House of Berethnet, which Sabran had long feared it would.

He wiped his brow. Kit must be boiling like a coney on the deck. Come to think of it, Kit had been on the deck for rather a long time.

Heaving a sigh, Loth stood. There was no lock on the door, but he supposed there was nowhere for the pirates to lug the traveling chest of garments and other effects that had been on the coach. Combe must have sent his retainers to collect them while Loth was oblivious in the Privy Chamber, sharing a quiet supper with Sabran and Roslain.

The air was cool above. A breeze scuffed over the waves. As the crew moved hither and thither, they bellowed a song, too quick and drenched in sea cant for Loth to understand. Despite what Harlowe had said, nobody took any notice of him as he ascended to the quarterdeck.

The Swan Strait divided the Queendom of Inys from the great continent that held the West and the South. Even in high summer, perishing winds blew through it from the Ashen Sea.

He found Kit hanging over the side, wiping vomit from his chin. “Good evening to you, sirrah.” Loth clapped him on the back. “Did you indulge in a little pirate wine?”

Kit was pale as a lily. “Arteloth,” he said, “I don’t think I’m at all well, you know.”

“You need ale.”

“I dare not ask them for it. They’ve been roaring like that for the whole time I’ve been up here.”

“They’re singing shanties,” a husky voice said.

Loth started. A woman in a wide-brimmed black hat was leaning against the gunwale nearby.

“Work songs.” She tossed Kit a wineskin. “Helps the swabbers pass the time.”

Kit twisted off the stopper. “Did you say swabbers, mistress?”

“Them that clear the decks.”

Going by her looks and accent, this privateer was from Yscalin. Deep olive skin, tanned and freckled. Hair like barley wine. Eyes of a clear amber, thinly outlined with black paint, the left eye underscored by a scar. She was well presented for a pirate, down to the sheen on her boots and her spotless jerkin. A rapier hung at her side.

“If I were you, I’d be back in my cabin before it gets dark,” she said. “Most of the crew don’t care overmuch for lordlings. Plume keeps them in check, but when he sleeps, so do their good manners.”

“I don’t believe we’ve made your acquaintance, mistress,” Kit said.

Her smile deepened. “And what makes you think I wish to make your acquaintance, my lord nobleman?”

“Well, you did speak to us first.”

“Perhaps I was bored.”

“Perhaps we’ll prove interesting.” He bowed in his extravagant way. “I am Lord Kitston Glade, court poet. Future Earl of Honeybrook, to my father’s chagrin. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Lord Arteloth Beck.” Loth inclined his head. “Heir of the Earl and Countess of Goldenbirch.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Estina Melaugo. Heir to my own gray hairs. Boatswain of the Rose Eternal.”

It was clear from Kit’s expression that he knew of this woman. Loth chose not to ask.

“So,” Melaugo said, “you’re heading for Cárscaro.”

“Are you from that city, mistress?” Loth enquired.

“No. Vazuva.”

Loth watched her drink from a glass bottle.

“Mistress,” he said, “I wonder if you could tell us what to expect in the court of King Sigoso. We know so little about what has happened in Yscalin over the last two years.”

“I know as much as you, my lord. I fled Yscalin, along with some others, the day the House of Vetalda announced its allegiance to the Nameless One.”

Kit spoke again: “Did many of those who fled become pirates?”

“Privateers, if you please.” Melaugo nodded to the ensign. “And no. Most exiles went to Mentendon or the Ersyr to start again, as best they could. But not everyone got out.”

“Is it possible that the people of Yscalin do not all bow to the Nameless One, then?” Loth asked her. “That they are only afraid of their king, or trapped in the country?”

“Likely. Nobody goes out now, and very few go in. Cárscaro still accepts foreign ambassadors, as evidenced by your good selves, but the rest of the country could be dead from plague, for all I know.” A curl blew across her eyes. “If you ever get out, you must tell me what Cárscaro is like now. I hear there was a great fire just before the birds flew out. Lavender fields used to grow near the capital, but they burned.”

This was making Loth feel more uneasy than he had before.

“I’ll confess to curiosity,” Melaugo said, “as to why your queen is sending you into the snake pit. I had thought you were a favorite of hers, Lord Arteloth.”

“It is not Queen Sabran who sends us, mistress,” Kit said, “but the ghastly Seyton Combe.” He sighed. “He never liked my poetry, you know. Only a soulless husk could hate poetry.”

“Ah, the Night Hawk,” Melaugo said, chuckling. “A suitable familiar for our queen.”

Loth stilled. “What do you mean by that?”

“Saint.” Kit looked fascinated. “A heretic as well as a pirate. Do you imply that Queen Sabran is some sort of witch?”

“Privateer. And keep your voice down.” Melaugo glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t misunderstand me, my lords. I’ve no personal dislike of Queen Sabran, but I come from a superstitious part of Yscalin, and there is something odd about the Berethnets. Each queen only having one child, always a daughter, and they all look so similar . . . I don’t know. Sounds like sorcery to—”

“Shadow!”

Melaugo turned. The roar had come from the crow’s nest.

“Another wyvern,” she said under her breath. “Excuse me.”

She vaulted onto the ropes and climbed. Kit ran to the side. “Wyvern? I’ve never seen one.”

“We don’t want to see one,” Loth said. His arms were prickling. “This is no place for us, Kit. Come, back below deck before—”

“Wait.” Kit shielded his eyes. His curls flew in the wind. “Loth, do you see that?”

Loth looked askance at the horizon. The sun was low and red, almost blinding him.

Melaugo was clinging to the ratlines, one eye to a spyglass. “Mother of—” She lowered it, then lifted it again. “Plume, it’s— I can’t believe what I’m seeing—”

“What is it?” the quartermaster called. “Estina?”

“It’s a— a High Western.” Her shout was hoarse. “A High Western!”

Those words were like a spark on kindling. Order splintered into chaos. Loth felt his legs become stone.

High Western.

“Ready the harpoons, the chainshot,” a Mentish woman called. “Prepare for heat! Do not engage unless it attacks!”

When he saw it, Loth turned cold to the marrow of his bones. He could not feel his hands or face.

It was impossible, yet there it was.

A wyrm. A monstrous, four-legged wyrm, over two hundred feet long from its snout to the tip of its tail.

This was no wyverling prowling for livestock. This was a breed that had not been seen in centuries, since the last hours of the Grief of Ages. Mightiest of the Draconic creatures. The High Westerns, largest and most brutal of all the dragons, the dread lords of wyrmkind.

One of them had woken.

The beast glided above the ship. As it passed, Loth could smell the heat inside it, the reek of smoke and brimstone.

The bear-trap of its mouth. The hot coals of its eyes. They wrote themselves into his memory. He had heard stories since he was a child, seen the hideous illustrations that lurked in bestiaries—but even his most harrowing nightmares had never conjured such a soul-fearing thing.

“Do not engage,” the Ment called again. “Steady!”

Loth pressed his back against the mainmast.

He could not deny what his eyes could see. This creature might not have the red scales of the Nameless One, but it was of his like.

The crew moved like ants fleeing water, but the wyrm appeared to have its mind set on another course. It soared over the Swan Strait. Loth could see the fire pulsing inside it, down the length of its throat to its belly. Its tail was edged with spines and ended in a mighty lash.

Loth caught the gunwale to hold himself upright. His ears were ringing. Close by, one of the younger seafarers was trembling all over, standing in a dark gold pool.

Harlowe had emerged from his cabin. He watched the High Western leave them behind.

“You had better start praying for salvation, my lords,” he said softly. “Fýredel, the right wing of the Nameless One, appears to have woken from his sleep.”