He wanted to live.
“I brought my crew over two seas,” the Golden Empress said to him, so softly only he could hear, “for nothing but a story. They will need someone to blame for this disappointment—and I assure you, Master of Recipes, that it will not be me. Unless you would like Yidagé to take the fall on your behalf, it must be you.” She touched him under the chin with her knife. “They may not kill you. But I think you will be pleading for that mercy.”
Her face blurred. Close by, Ghonra gripped Laya by the throat, poised to spill her life.
“I can find some means of making it her fault.” The Golden Empress looked at her interpreter, who had sailed with her for decades, without remorse. “Lies cost nothing, after all.”
Once, Niclays had allowed a young musician to be tortured to spare himself the same fate. The act of a man who had forgotten how to serve anyone but himself. If he was to die with any pride, he would not let Laya suffer for him any more than she had already.
“You will do no such thing,” he said quietly.
Laya shook her head. Her face crumpled into a look of grief.
“Take him back to the Pursuit, and tell the crew what we found.” The Golden Empress rose. “Let us see what they will—”
She stopped. Niclays looked up.
The Golden Empress dropped her blade. A curved sword was across her throat, and Tané Miduchi was standing behind her.
Niclays could hardly believe who he was seeing. He gaped at the woman he had tried to blackmail.
“You,” he stammered.
Wherever she had been, the last few months had not been kind to her. She was thinner, her eyes smeared with shadow. Fresh blood on her hands. “Give me the key,” she said in Lacustrine, her voice deep and thick with hatred. “The key for the chains.”
None of the pirates moved. Their captain was just as still, her eyebrows raised.
“Now,” the dragonrider said, “or your leader dies.” Her hand was steady. “The key.”
“Somebody give it to her,” the Golden Empress said, sounding almost irritated by this interruption. “If she wants her beast, let her take it.”
Ghonra stepped forward. If her adoptive mother died here, she would be the next Golden Empress, but Niclays had sensed a filial loyalty from her. She reached under her collar and held up a bronze key.
“No,” the dragonrider said. “The key is made of iron.” The blade drew blood. “Take me for a fool again, and she dies.”
Ghonra smirked. She produced another key and tossed it.
“For you, dragon-lover,” she purred. “Best of luck getting back to the ship.”
“Let me leave unharmed, and I may not have to use this.”
The dragonrider threw the Golden Empress aside and held up her free hand. In it was a jewel the size of a walnut, blue as smalt.
Surely not.
Niclays started to laugh. A climbing, unhinged sort of laugh.
“The rising jewel,” the scholar breathed, staring. “You. You are the descendant of Neporo.”
The dragonrider stared back in silence.
Tané Miduchi. Heir of the Queen of Komoridu. Heir to an empty rock and a dead tree. It was clear from her expression that she had no idea. Riders were often taken from deprived homes. She must have been separated from her family before they could tell her the truth.
“Take my friend with you,” Niclays said to her suddenly, hot tears of laughter still in his eyes. He nodded to Laya, whose lips were moving in prayer. “I beg you, Lady Tané. She is innocent in all of this.”
“For you,” the dragonrider said, with the utmost contempt, “I do nothing.”
“And what of me?” the Golden Empress asked. “Do you not wish me dead, rider?”
The younger woman clenched her jaw. Her fingers wrung the hilt of her sword.
“Come. I am old and slow, child. You can put an end to the slaughter of dragons, here and now.” The Golden Empress tapped the flat of her own blade against her palm. “Cut my throat. Earn back your honor.”
With a cold smile, the dragonrider closed her fist around the rising jewel.
“I will not kill you this night, butcher,” she said, “but what you see before you is a ghost. When you least expect it, I will return to haunt you. I will hunt you to the ends of the earth. And I vow to you that if we meet again, I will turn the sea red.”
She sheathed her sword and walked into the darkness. With her walked the only chance of escape.
That was when one of the pirates fired his pistol after her.
Tané Miduchi stopped. Niclays saw her fist tighten around the jewel, and he felt the slightest tremor.
A wet roar filled the sky. Laya screamed. Niclays barely had time to look up, and to stare at the wall of water that was churning up the beach, before it swept them all into icy darkness.
Niclays went head over heels. His nostrils burned as he breathed salt water straight into his chest. Blind with dread, he grappled with the flood, bubbles swarming from his mouth. All he could see was his hands. When he broke the surface, his eyeglasses were lost. From what little he could make out, the pirates had been flung far and wide, the boat that had brought them here was empty, and Tané Miduchi had disappeared.
“Find her,” the Golden Empress roared. Niclays coughed up water. “Back to the ship. Bring me that jewel!”
The sea withdrew in a rush, as if sucked into the belly of a god. Niclays found himself on all fours on the sand, spluttering, hair dripping into his eyes.
A sword lay before him. His hand closed around it. If he could find Laya, they still had a chance. They could fight their way on to the boat and be gone …
As he called her name, he became aware of a shadow. He raised the sword, but the Golden Empress knocked it away.
A flash of steel, and another.
Blood on the sand.
A frothing gargle escaped him. He buckled, one hand locked over his throat. The other hand was gone. Somewhere in the chaos, Laya was shouting his name.
“My crew must have flesh.” The Golden Empress scooped up his hand as if it were a dead fish. He retched at the sight of it. Still flushed with life. Liver-spotted with his years. “Consider this mercy. I would take the rest of you, but my cargo is in danger, and carrying you would slow us down. You understand, Roos. You know good business.”
Darkness pumped from the screaming mouth of his arm. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt. Boiling oil. A sun in the stump. He would never hold a quill in this hand again. That was all he could think, even as his lifeblood welled from his throat. Then Laya was at his side, pressing the wound.
“Hold on,” she said, voice cracking. “Hold on, Niclays.” She gathered him close. “I’m here. I’m going to stay with you. You are going to sleep in Mentendon, not here. Not now. I promise.”
A ringing drowned her words. Just before his world turned black, he looked toward the sky and saw, at last, the form of death.
Death, as it turned out, had wings.
The Pursuit was such an enormous ship that the waves hardly disturbed it. One could almost dream that it was not on water at all. Loth sat in its hull, listening to the commotion on the deck, all too aware that he was deep inside a nest of criminals. He dared not let go of his baselard, but he had doused the lantern, just in case. It was a miracle that no one had come down here yet. Tané had been gone for what felt like an eternity.
The wyrm—no, dragon—observed him with a fearsome blue eye. Loth looked staunchly at the floor.
It was true that this creature did not look, or act, like the Draconic beasts of the West, though it was just as large. The horns were not unlike those of a High Western, but that was where the similarities ended. A mane like riverweed flowed down its neck. Its face was broad, its eyes round as bucklers, and its scales reminded Loth more of a fish than a lizard. He still had no intention of trusting or talking to it. One glimpse of its teeth, white and razor-sharp, and he knew it was just as capable as Fyredel of tearing him to shreds.
Footsteps. He shifted behind a crate and gripped the baselard.
His brow was damp. He had never killed. Not even the cockatrice. After all this madness, he was somehow free of that stain—but he would, to survive. To save his country.
When Tané appeared, her breathing was labored, her footsteps wove drunkenly, and she was soaked to the skin. Without a word, she took a key from her sash and undid the first of the padlocks. Loth helped her heave the chains away.
The dragon shook itself and let out a low growl. Tané stepped back, motioning for Loth to do the same, as it lifted its head and stretched to its full and formidable length. Loth was only too happy to oblige. For the first time, the beast looked angry. Its nostrils flared. Its eyes were on fire. It splayed its toes, found its balance, and, with one great swing, smashed its tail against the side of the ship.
The Pursuit shuddered. Loth almost lost his footing as the floor quaked beneath him.