She remained standing, arms folded. “Doctor Roos.”
Her face betrayed none of her feelings toward him, but he suspected, from the way she took an almost protective stance beside Sabran, that they were not particularly warm.
Niclays tried not to meet her gaze. He could mask his intentions well enough, but something about her eyes made him think that they could see right through him.
The blade was cold in his palm. Kalyba had warned him that Ead Duryan was much faster than an ordinary woman, but she would also have no idea that he was carrying something that could harm her. He must strike hard and fast. And with the wrong hand.
Sabran placed her hands on the table, fingertips just touching. “How did you come to be this far into the Abyss?”
Now for the lie.
“I was trying, madam,” he said, “to escape from the exile you imposed on me.”
“You believed you could cross the Abyss in a rowing boat.”
“Desperation will drive any man to folly.”
“Or woman. Perhaps that explains why I engaged your services all those years ago.”
One corner of his mouth crooked up. “Your Majesty,” he said, “you impress me. I had not thought that one heart could hold such rancor.”
“My memory is long,” Sabran said.
He was sick with hatred. Seven years of imprisonment in Orisima meant nothing to her. She would still deny him a return to Mentendon, all because he had embarrassed her. Because he had made a queen feel small. He saw it in those ruthless eyes.
Kalyba could make them weep. The witch had promised that the death of Ead Duryan would break Sabran Berethnet and, once she was broken, Kalyba would give her to the Nameless One. As he looked at her, Niclays wanted it. He wanted to see her suffer. To be sorry. All he need do was kill her lady-in-waiting and take the white jewel she carried.
Kalyba would resurrect him if the guards ran him through. He would be allowed to return to Mentendon not only with riches, but with Jannart. She would give Jannart back to him.
If he did not do as she said, Laya would die.
“I want you to know something, Sabran Berethnet,” Niclays whispered. The pain in his arm was making his eyes water. “I loathe you. I loathe every lash of your eyes, every finger on your hands, and every tooth in your mouth. I loathe you to the very marrow of your bones.”
Sabran met his gaze without flinching.
“You cannot fathom the depth of the enmity I have felt for you. I have cursed your name with every sunrise. The thought that I might one day create the elixir of life, then deny it to you, has driven my every action. All I longed to do was thwart your ambition.”
“You will not speak to Her Majesty in this manner,” one of her shining knights interrupted.
“I will speak to Her Majesty however I please. If she wants me to stop, let her stop me herself,” Niclays said curtly, “rather than letting her metal-clad manikin do it for her.”
Still Sabran said nothing. The knight in question looked at her before desisting, tight-lipped.
“Years I spent on that island.” Niclays spoke through gritted teeth. “Years on a scrap of land clinging to Cape Hisan, watched and mistrusted. Years of walking the same few streets, aching for home. All because I had promised you a gift that had never been given, and you, the Queen of Inys, were na?ve enough to swallow it whole. Yes, I deserved chastisement. Yes, I was a cur, and a year or two away might have done me good. But seven … by the Saint, madam, death by burning would have been a mercy in comparison.”
His hand clenched around the blade so hard that his nails bit into his palm.
“I could forgive your theft of my money. I could forgive your lies,” Sabran whispered, “but you preyed on me, Roos. I was young and afraid, and I confided my deepest fear to you. That fear was something I concealed even from my Ladies of the Bedchamber.”
“And that warrants seven years in exile.”
“It warrants something. Perhaps I will apologize when you consent to make even the slightest reparation for your lies.”
“I wrote to you, groveling,” Niclays spat, “after Aubrecht Lievelyn refused to allow me to return home. He was so desirous of your sacred cunt that he prized it over—”
Sabran stood, her face bloodless, and every partizan in the room snapped toward his chest.
“You will not speak of Aubrecht Lievelyn again,” she said, deadly soft, “or I will have you thrown off this ship in pieces.”
He had gone too far. The Knights of the Body wore no visors indoors; he could see the shock written on their faces, a disgust that ran far deeper than it would at a crude insult.
“He’s dead,” Niclays deduced. “Isn’t he?”
The silence confirmed it.
“I received no letter.” Sabran kept her voice low. “Why not disclose its contents to me now?”
He chuckled darkly. “Oh, Sabran. Seven years have not changed you. Shall I tell you why I am really here?”
The blade was ice in the heat of his hand. Behind Sabran, Ead Duryan was none the wiser. Just one lunge, and he could get it into her throat after all. He could hear Sabran scream. Watch that mask of a face crack open.
That was when the door swung open, and none other than Tané Miduchi strode into the cabin.
His jaw dropped. The Knights of the Body crossed their partizans in front of her at once, but she shoved against them, looking more than ready to claw his throat open.
“You cannot trust this man,” she barked at Sabran. “He is a blackmailer, a monster—”
“Ah, Lady Tané,” Niclays said dryly. “We meet again. The strings of our fates appear to be tangled.”
In truth, he was shocked to see her. He had assumed that she had drowned, or that the Golden Empress had hunted her down. What she was doing with the Queen of Inys was beyond him.
“I let you live on Komoridu,” she hissed at him, “but no more. You always come back. Like a weed.” She wrestled against the Knights of the Body. “I will gut you with my own blade, you soulless—”
“Wait.” Ead grasped her shoulder. “Doctor Roos, you said you would tell us why you were really here. I recommend you do so now, before your trail of destruction catches up with you.”
“He is here to do us ill, for his own gain,” Miduchi said, staring him out. “He always is.”
“Then let him confess it.”
Miduchi shrugged off her hand, but stopped pushing against the guards. Her narrow shoulders heaved.
Niclays sank back into his seat. His arm was full of fire. His head throbbed.
“The Miduchi is right,” he said, between heavy breaths. “I was sent here by some … sorceress, or shape-shifter. Kalyba.”
Ead turned sharply to face him. “What?”
“Damned if I knew such things existed, but I suppose I should stop being surprised at this rate.” A stab of pain in his stump. “In telling you this, I condemn a friend to death.” His jaw trembled. “But … I think that friend would want me to do this.”
He removed the shard of metal and laid it on the table. One of the Knights of the Body made toward it, but Ead warded him away with one hand.
“Kalyba gave it to me. It was sh-she who left me in the boat. She told me I was to reach the ship to get close to you, Lady Nurtha,” Niclays said. “To d-drive this into your heart.”
“A sterren blade,” Ead said, eyeing it. “Like Ascalon. Not large enough to use against the Nameless One, but it would have pierced my skin well enough.” Her gaze flicked up. “I can only assume she fears me more than she did before. Perhaps she has heard the jewels calling.”
“Jewels.” Niclays raised his eyebrows. “You have them both?”
With a nod, Ead sat beside Sabran.
“The Witch of Inysca is persuasive,” she said to him. “She must have promised you all the riches you desired. Why confess?”
“Oh, she offered me something far greater than riches, Lady Nurtha. Something for which I would gladly sacrifice what little wealth remains to me,” Niclays said, with a bitter smile. “She showed me the face of my only love. And she promised to return him to me.”
“And yet you do not do her bidding.”
“Once,” he said, “I would have. If she had not worn his face—if she had only promised that I would see him again—I might well have become her little homunculus. But seeing him … I was repulsed. Because Jannart—” The name snared in his throat. “Jannart is dead. He chose the manner of his death, and by resurrecting him like that, Kalyba dishonored his memory.”
Ead watched him.
“I am an alchemist. All my life, I believed that the end goal of alchemy was the glorious transformation of imperfection into purity. Lead into gold, disease into wellness, decay to eternal life. But now I understand. I see. Those were false destinations.”
His professor had been right, as always. She had often said that the true alchemy was the work, not its completion. Niclays had thought it was her way of comforting those who never made any progress.