“This,” Kit declared as they walked toward it, “is a fine ship. I believe that I would marry this ship, were I a ship myself.”
Loth had to agree. The Rose was battle-scarred, but very handsome—and colossal. Even on his visits to see the navy with Sabran, he had never laid eyes upon such an immense ship as this ironclad man-of-war. She boasted one hundred and eight guns, a fearsome ram, and eighteen sails, all emblazoned with the True Sword, the emblem of Virtudom. The ensign attested that this was an Inysh vessel, and that the actions of its crew, however morally dubious they might appear, were sanctioned by its monarchy.
A figurehead of Rosarian the Fourth, lovingly polished, gazed down from the bow. Black hair and white skin. Eyes as green as sea glass. Her body tapered into a gilded tail.
Loth remembered Queen Rosarian fondly from the years before her death. The Queen Mother, as she was known now, had often watched him at play with Sabran and Roslain in the orchards. She had been a softer woman than Sabran, quick to laugh and gamesome in a way her daughter never was.
“She’s a beauty, right enough,” Gautfred Plume said. He was the quartermaster, a dwarf of Lasian descent. “Not half as great a beauty as the lady who gifted her to the captain, mind.”
“Ah, yes.” Kit doffed his feathered hat to the figurehead. “May she rest forever in the arms of the Saint.”
Plume clicked his tongue. “Queen Rosarian had a merrow’s soul. She should have rested in the arms of the sea.”
“Oh, by the Saint, how beautifully put. Do merfolk really exist, incidentally? Did you ever see them when you crossed the Abyss?”
“No. Blackfish and greatsquid and baleens, I’ve seen, but nary the cap of a sea maid.”
Kit wilted.
Seagulls circled in the cloud-streaked sky. The port of Perchling was ready for the worst, as always. The jetties rattled under the weight of soldiers armed with long-range muskets. Row upon row of mangonels and cannon bursting with chainshot, interspersed with stone mantlets, stood grimly on the beach. Archers occupied the watchtowers, ready to light their beacons at the whump of wings or the sight of an enemy ship.
Above it, a small city teetered. Perchling was so named because it perched on two great shelves that jutted halfway down the cliffside, joined to the top of the cliff, and to the beach, by a long and drunken stair. Buildings huddled like birds on a branch. Kit had been amused by its precariousness (“Saint, the architect must have been wondrous deep in the cups”), but it made Loth nervous. Perchling looked as if one good squall would blow it clean into the sea.
Still he drank it in, committing it to memory. This might be the last time he looked upon Inys, the only country he had ever known.
They found Gian Harlowe in his cabin, deep in letter-writing. The man the Queen Mother had favored was not quite what Loth had imagined. He was clean-shaven, his cuffs starched, but there was a bitten edge to him. His jaw was set like a sprung trap.
When they entered, he glanced up. Smallpox had pitted his deeply tanned face.
“Gautfred.” A mane of pewter hair gleamed in the sunlight. “I take it these are our … guests.”
Though his accent was firmly Inysh, Kit had mentioned that Harlowe came from far-off shores. Rumor had it that he was descended from the people of Carmentum, once a prosperous republic in the South, that had fallen in the Grief of Ages. The survivors had scattered far and wide.
“Aye,” Plume said, sounding jaded. “Lord Arteloth Beck and Lord Kitston Glade.”
“Kit,” came the prompt correction.
Harlowe put down his quill. “My lords,” he said coolly. “Welcome aboard the Rose Eternal.”
“Thank you for finding cabins for us at such short notice, Captain Harlowe,” Loth said. “This is a mission of the utmost importance.”
“And the utmost secrecy, I’m told. Strange that no man but the heir to Goldenbirch could attend to it.” Harlowe studied Loth. “We set sail for the Yscali port city of Perunta at dusk. My crew are not accustomed to having nobles under their feet, so it might well be more comfortable for us all if you keep to your cabins while you’re with us.”
“Yes,” Kit said. “Good idea.”
“I’m full of those,” the captain said. “Either of you been to Yscalin before?” When they both shook their heads, he said, “Which of you offended the Principal Secretary?”
Loth sensed, rather than saw, Kit jab a thumb at him.
“Lord Arteloth.” Harlowe barked a coarse laugh. “And you such a respectable fellow. Clearly you displeased His Grace to the point that he would rather not see you alive again.” The captain leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure you’re both aware that the House of Vetalda now openly declares its Draconic allegiance.”
Loth shivered. The knowledge that a country could, within a few years, go from following the Saint to worshipping his enemy had shaken the whole of Virtudom.
“And all obey?” he said.
“The people do as their king commands, but they suffer. We hear from the dockworkers that plague is all over Yscalin.” Harlowe picked up his quill again. “Speaking of which, my crew won’t be escorting you ashore. You’ll use a boat to reach Perunta.”
Kit swallowed. “And then?”
“You’ll be met by an emissary, who will take you to Cárscaro. No doubt its court is free of the sickness, since nobles have the luxury of barring themselves into their fortresses when this sort of thing occurs,” Harlowe said, “but try to avoid touching anyone. The most common strain is passed from skin to skin.”
“How do you know this?” Loth asked him. “The Draconic plague has not been seen in centuries.”
“I have an interest in survival, Lord Arteloth. I recommend you nurture one, too.” The captain stood. “Master Plume, ready the ship. Let’s see to it that my lords reach the coast in one piece, even if they do die on arrival.”
7
West
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.