Ead leafed through pillow talk and riddles until she found a letter dated from early spring, when Sulyard had gone missing. The writing was smeared.
Forgive me. I had to leave. In Perchling I spoke to a seafarer, and she made me an offer I could not refuse. I know we planned to go together, and perhaps you will hate me for the rest of our lives, but it is better this way, my sweetheart. You can help where you are, at court. When I send word of my success, convince Queen Sabran to look kindly upon our enterprise. Make her realize the danger.
Burn this letter. Let none of them know what we are doing until it is done. They will hail us as legends one day, Truyde.
Perchling. The largest port in Inys, and its principal gateway to the mainland. Sulyard had fled on a ship, then.
There was something else beneath the floorboard. A thin book, bound in leather. Ead skirted one finger over its title, written in what was unquestionably an Eastern script.
Truyde could not have found this book in any Inysh library. Seeking knowledge of the East was heresy. She would get far worse than a scolding if anyone found it.
“Somebody coming,” the mimic croaked.
A door closed below. Ead hid the book and letters beneath her cloak and returned the box to its nook.
Footsteps echoed through the rafters. She fitted the floorboard back into place. On her way past the perch, she emptied the rest of her comfits into the dish.
“Not a word,” she whispered to the spy, “or I will turn those lovely feathers into quills.”
The mimic chuckled darkly as Ead vaulted through the window.
They were lying side by side under the apple tree in the courtyard, as they often did in the high summer. A flagon of wine from the Great Kitchen sat beside them, along with a dish of spiced cheese and fresh bread. Ead was telling him about some prank the maids of honor had played on Lady Oliva Marchyn, and he was laughing so hard his belly ached. She was part poet and part fool when it came to telling stories.
The sun had lured out the freckles on her nose. Her black hair fanned across the grass. Past the glare of the sun, he could see the clock tower above them, and the stained-glass windows in the cloisters, and the apples on their branches. All was well.
“My lord.”
The memory shattered. Loth looked up to see a man with no teeth.
The hall of the inn was full of country-dwellers. Somewhere, a lutenist was playing a ballad about the beauty of Queen Sabran. A few days ago, he had been hunting with her. Now he was leagues away, listening to a song that spoke of her as if she were a myth. All he knew was that he was on his way to near-certain death in Yscalin, and that the Dukes Spiritual loathed him enough to have set him on that path.
How suddenly a life could crumble.
The innkeeper set down a trencher. On it sat two bowls of pottage, rough-cut cheese, and a round of barley bread.
“Anything else I can do for you, my lords?”
“No,” Loth said. “Thank you.”
The innkeeper bowed low. Loth doubted it was every day that he hosted the noble sons of Earls Provincial in his establishment.
On the other bench, Lord Kitston Glade, his dear friend, tore into the bread with his teeth.
“Oh, for—” He sprayed it out. “Stale as a prayer book. Dare I try the cheese?”
Loth sipped his mead, wishing it was cold.
“If the food in your province is so vile,” he said, “you should take it up with your lord father.”
Kit snorted. “Yes, he does rather enjoy that sort of dullness.”
“You ought to be grateful for this meal. I doubt there will be anything better on the ship.”
“I know, I know. I’m a soft-fingered noble who sleeps on swansdown, loves too many courtiers, and gluts himself on sweetmeats. Court has ruined me. That’s what Father said when I became a poet, you know.” Kit poked gingerly at the cheese. “Speaking of which, I must write while I’m here—a pastoral, perhaps. Aren’t my people charming?”
“Quite,” Loth said.
He could not feign light-heartedness today. Kit reached across the table to grasp his shoulder.
“Stay with me, Arteloth,” he said. Loth grunted. “Did the driver tell you the name of our captain?”
“Harman, I think.”
“You don’t mean Harlowe?” Loth shrugged. “Oh, Loth, you must have heard of Gian Harlowe. The pirate! Everyone in Ascalon—”
“I am patently not everyone in Ascalon.” Loth rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please, enlighten me as to what sort of knave is taking us to Yscalin.”
“A legendary knave,” Kit said in hushed tones. “Harlowe came to Inys as a boy from far-off shores. He joined the navy at nine and was captain of a ship by the time he turned eighteen—but he bit the hook of piracy, as so many promising young officers do.” He poured more mead into their tankards. “The man has sailed every sea in the world, seas that no cartographer has ever named. By plundering ships, they say he had amassed wealth to rival the Dukes Spiritual by the time he was thirty.”
Loth drank yet again. He had the feeling he would need another tankard before they left.
“I wonder, then, Kit,” he said, “why this infamous outlaw is taking us to Yscalin.”
“He may be the only captain brave enough to make the crossing. He is a man without fear,” Kit replied. “Queen Rosarian favored him, you know.”
Sabran’s mother. Loth looked up, interested at last. “Did she?”
“She did. They say he was in love with her.”
“I hope you are not suggesting that Queen Rosarian was ever unfaithful to Prince Wilstan.”
“Arteloth, my surly northern friend—I never said she returned the love,” Kit said equably, “but she liked the man enough to bestow on him the largest ironclad ship in her fleet, which he named the Rose Eternal. Now he calls himself privateer with impunity.”
“Ah. Privateer.” Loth managed a slight chuckle. “The most sought-after title in all the world.”
“His crew has captured several Yscali ships in the last two years. I doubt they will take kindly to our arrival.”
“I imagine the Yscals take kindly to very little nowadays.”
They sat in silence for some time. While Kit ate, Loth gazed out of the window.
It had happened in the dead of night. Retainers wearing the winged book of Lord Seyton Combe had entered his chambers and ordered him to come with them. Before he knew it, he had been bundled into a coach with Kit—who had also been marched from his lodgings under cover of darkness—and shown a note to explain his circumstances.
Lord Arteloth Beck—
You and Lord Kitston are now Inysh ambassadors-in-residence to the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin. The Yscals have been informed you are coming.
Make enquiries about the last ambassador, the Duke of Temperance. Observe the court of the Vetalda. Most importantly, find out what they are planning, and if they intend to mount an invasion of Inys.
For queen and country.
The note had been jerked out of his hands within moments, and presumably carried off to be burned.
What Loth could not work out was why. Why he, of all people, was being sent to Yscalin. Inys needed to know what was happening in Cárscaro, but he was no spy.
The hound of despair was on his back, but he could not let it buckle him. He was not alone.
“Kit,” he said, “forgive me. You have been forced to join me in my exile, and I have been poor company.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I’ve always rather fancied an adventure.” Kit smoothed back his flaxen curls with both hands. “Since you’re finally talking, though, we ought to speak about our … situation.”
“Don’t. Not now, Kit. It’s done.”
“You must not think Queen Sabran ordered your banishment,” Kit said firmly. “I tell you, this was arranged without her knowledge. Combe will have told her you left court of your own free will, and she will have doubts about her spymaster. You must tell her the truth,” he urged. “Write to her. Disclose to her what they have done, and—”
“Combe reads every letter before it reaches her.”
“Could you not use some cipher?”
“No cipher is safe from the Night Hawk. There is a reason why Sabran made him her spymaster.”
“Then write to your family. Ask them for their help.”
“They will not be granted an audience with Sabran unless they go through Combe. Even if they are,” Loth said, “it will be too late for us by then. We will already be in Cárscaro.”
“They should still know where you are.” Kit shook his head. “Saint, I’m beginning to think you want to leave.”
“If the Dukes Spiritual believe I am the best person to find out what has transpired in Yscalin, then perhaps I am.”
“Oh, come, Loth. You know why this is happening. Everyone tried to warn you.”
Loth waited, brow furrowed. With a sigh, Kit drained his tankard and leaned in closer.
“Queen Sabran is not yet married,” he murmured. Loth tensed. “If the Dukes Spiritual favor a foreign match for her, your presence at her side … well, it complicates things.”