“I must trust in that, too.” Loth thought of the tunnel. That lonesome tomb. “Thank you, Sab. Truly.”
“I know his death must hurt you still, rightly,” Sabran said, “but you must not let it cloud your judgment.”
“I know it.” He drew in a breath. “I must visit Combe.”
“Very well. I will be in the Privy Library, attending to neglected matters of state.”
“An invigorating day ahead of you, then.”
“Indeed.” With another weary smile, Sabran turned back to the Queen Tower. “Good day to you, Lord Arteloth.”
“Good day, Your Majesty.”
In spite of it all, it was a fine thing to be back at court.
In the Dearn Tower, Lord Seyton Combe was wrapped in a blanket, reading a prayer book with bloodshot eyes. He was shivering, and little wonder.
“Lord Arteloth,” the Night Hawk said, when the jailer let Loth in. “How good to see you back at court.”
“I wish I could feel as warmly toward you, Your Grace.”
“Oh, I expect no warmth, my lord. I had good reasons for sending you away, but you will not like them.”
Keeping his face clean of emotion, Loth took a seat.
“For the time being, Queen Sabran has entrusted the investigation of the attempted usurpation of her throne to me,” he said. “I would hear everything you know about Crest.”
Combe sat back. Loth had always found those eyes unnerving.
“When Queen Sabran was confined to her sickbed,” Combe began, “I had no reason, at first, to suspect that anything was amiss with her care. She had agreed to keep to the Queen Tower to conceal her miscarriage, and Lady Roslain was willing to stay with her during her illness. Then, not long after Mistress Duryan left the capital—”
“Fled,” Loth corrected. “In fear for her life. Banishing friends of the queen is something of a habit of yours, Your Grace.”
“I make a habit of protecting her, my lord.”
“You failed.”
At this, Combe heaved a long sigh.
“Yes.” He rubbed at the shadows under his eyes. “Yes, my lord, I did.”
Loth felt, to his exasperation, a flicker of sympathy.
“Continue,” he said.
It was a moment before Combe did. “Doctor Bourn came to me,” he recounted. “He had been ordered out of the Queen Tower. He confessed his fear that, rather than being cared for, Her Majesty was being guarded. Only Lady Igrain and Lady Roslain were attending her.
“I had long been … uneasy about Igrain. I misliked her rather pitiless species of piety.” Combe drew slow circles on his temple. “I had told her what I had learned from one of my spies. That Lady Nurtha, as she is known now, had carnal knowledge of the queen. Something changed in her eyes. She made a comment alluding to Queen Rosarian and her … marital conduct.”
A memory, unbidden, of her portrait in Cárscaro, slashed in a fit of jealous rage.
“I began to fit the pieces together, and I misliked the picture they formed,” Combe said. “I sensed Igrain was power-drunk on her own patron virtue. And that she was plotting to supplant her queen with someone else.”
“Roslain.”
Combe nodded. “The future head of the Crest family. When I attempted to enter the royal apartments, I found myself barred by retainers, who told me the queen was too unwell for visitors. I went away without demur, but that night, I, ah, apprehended Igrain’s secretary.
“The duchess is a clever woman. She knew not to keep anything in her own office, but her secretary, under pressure, surrendered documents pertaining to her finances.” A grim smile. “I found recurring stipends from the Duchy of Askrdal. A vast payment from Cárscaro, paid after the death of the Queen Mother. Fine cloth and jewels for bribery. A significant number of crowns had been moved from her coffers to those of a merchant named Tam Atkin. I discovered that he is the half-brother of Bess Weald, who shot Lievelyn.”
“A conspiracy more than a decade in the making,” Loth said, “and you saw none of it.” The corner of his mouth flinched. “A hawk has keen eyes. Perhaps they should name you the Night Mole instead. Nosing blindly in the dark.”
Combe chuckled humorlessly, but it turned into a cough.
“I would have earned it,” he rasped. “You see, Lord Arteloth, while my eyes are everywhere, I closed them to those of holy blood. I assumed the loyalty of the other Dukes Spiritual. And so, I did not watch.”
He was shivering more than ever.
“I had evidence against Igrain,” Combe went on, “but I had to tread carefully. She had occupied the Queen Tower, you understand, and any rash move against her could have endangered Her Majesty. I conferred with Lady Nelda and Lord Lemand, and we decided that the best option would be to go to our estates, return with our retinues, and quench the spark of usurpation. Fortunate, my lord, that you arrived first, or there might have been a great deal more bloodshed.”
There was a pause while Loth thought it over. Much as he disliked the man, it had the ring of truth.
“I understand that Igrain grasped for power just as I banished Lady Nurtha, so I may appear complicit in her crimes,” Combe said while Loth digested this, “but I call the Saint to witness that I have done nothing unbeseeming an honest man. Nor have I done anything unworthy of my place beside the Queen of Inys.” His gaze held steady. “She may be the last Berethnet, but she is a Berethnet. And I mean for her to rule for a long time yet.”
Loth considered the man who had exiled him to near-certain death. There was something in those eyes that spoke of sincerity, but Loth was no longer the trusting boy who had been sent away. He had seen too much.
“Will you speak against Crest,” he finally said, “and surrender your physical evidence?”
“I will.”
“And will you send a sum of money to the Earl and Countess of Honeybrook?” Loth asked. “For the loss of their only heir, Kitston Glade. Their beloved son.” His throat clenched. “And the kindest friend who ever lived.”
“I will. Of course.” Combe inclined his head. “May the Knight of Justice guide your hand, my lord. I pray you are kinder than her descendant.”
54
East
The Sundance Sea was so crystal-clear that the sunset turned it to pure ruby. Niclays Roos stood at the prow of the Pursuit, watching the waves roll and swell.
It was good to be on the move. The Pursuit had docked for weeks in the ruined city of Kawontay, where merchants and pirates who defied the sea ban had built a thriving shadow market. The crew had loaded the ship with enough provisions and sweet water for a return journey, and enough gunpowder and other ordnance to flatten a city.
In the end, they had not sold Nayimathun. The Golden Empress had decided to keep her as leverage against the High Sea Guard.
Niclays pressed a hand to his tunic, where a vial of blood and the scale he had carved from the creature was concealed. Every night, he had taken out the scale to examine it, but all he could remember, when his fingers traced its surface, was the way the dragon had looked at him as he cleaved its armor from its flesh.
A rustle pulled his gaze up. The Pursuit was flying the crimson sails of a plague ship, purchased to aid its passage through the Sundance Sea. Nonetheless, it remained the most recognizable vessel in the East, and it had soon drawn the vengeful eye of Seiiki. When the High Sea Guard and its dragonriders had come to meet them, the Golden Empress had sent a rowing boat out with a warning. She would gut the great Nayimathun like a fish if so much as an inch of her ship was harmed, or if she caught any of them following. As evidence that she still had the dragon, she had sent one of its teeth.
Every dragon and ship had fallen back. They could hardly have done otherwise. Still, it was likely they were giving chase at a distance.
“There you are.”
Niclays turned. Laya Yidagé came to stand beside him.
“You looked pensive,” she said.
“Alchemists are supposed to look pensive, dear lady.”
At least they were moving. With every star they sailed under, they inched closer to the end.
“I paid a visit to the dragon.” Laya pulled her shawl closer. “I think it’s dying.”
“Has it not been fed?”
“Its scales are drying out. The crew throw buckets of seawater on it, but it needs to be immersed.”
Wind gusted across the ship. Niclays hardly noticed its bite. His cloak was heavy enough that he was as snug as a bear in its hide. The Golden Empress had gifted him these clothes after naming him Master of Recipes, a title given to court alchemists in the Empire of the Twelve Lakes.
“Niclays,” Laya said under her breath, “I think that you and I ought to make a plan.”
“Why?”
“Because if there is no mulberry tree at the end of this path, the Golden Empress will have your head.”
Niclays swallowed. “And if there is?”
“Well, then perhaps you won’t die. But I have had enough of this fleet now. I have lived as an old salt, but I have no intention of dying one.” She looked at him. “I want to go home. Do you?”