“Them that clear the decks.”
Going by her looks and accent, this privateer was from Yscalin. Deep olive skin, tanned and freckled. Hair like barley wine. Eyes of a clear amber, thinly outlined with black paint, the left eye underscored by a scar. She was well presented for a pirate, down to the sheen on her boots and her spotless jerkin. A rapier hung at her side.
“If I were you, I’d be back in my cabin before it gets dark,” she said. “Most of the crew don’t care overmuch for lordlings. Plume keeps them in check, but when he sleeps, so do their good manners.”
“I don’t believe we’ve made your acquaintance, mistress,” Kit said.
Her smile deepened. “And what makes you think I wish to make your acquaintance, my lord nobleman?”
“Well, you did speak to us first.”
“Perhaps I was bored.”
“Perhaps we’ll prove interesting.” He bowed in his extravagant way. “I am Lord Kitston Glade, court poet. Future Earl of Honeybrook, to my father’s chagrin. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Lord Arteloth Beck.” Loth inclined his head. “Heir of the Earl and Countess of Goldenbirch.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Estina Melaugo. Heir to my own gray hairs. Boatswain of the Rose Eternal.”
It was clear from Kit’s expression that he knew of this woman. Loth chose not to ask.
“So,” Melaugo said, “you’re heading for Cárscaro.”
“Are you from that city, mistress?” Loth enquired.
“No. Vazuva.”
Loth watched her drink from a glass bottle.
“Mistress,” he said, “I wonder if you could tell us what to expect in the court of King Sigoso. We know so little about what has happened in Yscalin over the last two years.”
“I know as much as you, my lord. I fled Yscalin, along with some others, the day the House of Vetalda announced its allegiance to the Nameless One.”
Kit spoke again: “Did many of those who fled become pirates?”
“Privateers, if you please.” Melaugo nodded to the ensign. “And no. Most exiles went to Mentendon or the Ersyr to start again, as best they could. But not everyone got out.”
“Is it possible that the people of Yscalin do not all bow to the Nameless One, then?” Loth asked her. “That they are only afraid of their king, or trapped in the country?”
“Likely. Nobody goes out now, and very few go in. Cárscaro still accepts foreign ambassadors, as evidenced by your good selves, but the rest of the country could be dead from plague, for all I know.” A curl blew across her eyes. “If you ever get out, you must tell me what Cárscaro is like now. I hear there was a great fire just before the birds flew out. Lavender fields used to grow near the capital, but they burned.”
This was making Loth feel more uneasy than he had before.
“I’ll confess to curiosity,” Melaugo said, “as to why your queen is sending you into the snake pit. I had thought you were a favorite of hers, Lord Arteloth.”
“It is not Queen Sabran who sends us, mistress,” Kit said, “but the ghastly Seyton Combe.” He sighed. “He never liked my poetry, you know. Only a soulless husk could hate poetry.”
“Ah, the Night Hawk,” Melaugo said, chuckling. “A suitable familiar for our queen.”
Loth stilled. “What do you mean by that?”
“Saint.” Kit looked fascinated. “A heretic as well as a pirate. Do you imply that Queen Sabran is some sort of witch?”
“Privateer. And keep your voice down.” Melaugo glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t misunderstand me, my lords. I’ve no personal dislike of Queen Sabran, but I come from a superstitious part of Yscalin, and there is something odd about the Berethnets. Each queen only having one child, always a daughter, and they all look so similar … I don’t know. Sounds like sorcery to—”
“Shadow!”
Melaugo turned. The roar had come from the crow’s nest.
“Another wyvern,” she said under her breath. “Excuse me.”
She vaulted onto the ropes and climbed. Kit ran to the side. “Wyvern? I’ve never seen one.”
“We don’t want to see one,” Loth said. His arms were prickling. “This is no place for us, Kit. Come, back below deck before—”
“Wait.” Kit shielded his eyes. His curls flew in the wind. “Loth, do you see that?”
Loth looked askance at the horizon. The sun was low and red, almost blinding him.
Melaugo was clinging to the ratlines, one eye to a spyglass. “Mother of—” She lowered it, then lifted it again. “Plume, it’s— I can’t believe what I’m seeing—”
“What is it?” the quartermaster called. “Estina?”
“It’s a— a High Western.” Her shout was hoarse. “A High Western!”
Those words were like a spark on kindling. Order splintered into chaos. Loth felt his legs become stone.
High Western.
“Ready the harpoons, the chainshot,” a Mentish woman called. “Prepare for heat! Do not engage unless it attacks!”
When he saw it, Loth turned cold to the marrow of his bones. He could not feel his hands or face.
It was impossible, yet there it was.
A wyrm. A monstrous, four-legged wyrm, over two hundred feet long from its snout to the tip of its tail.
This was no wyverling prowling for livestock. This was a breed that had not been seen in centuries, since the last hours of the Grief of Ages. Mightiest of the Draconic creatures. The High Westerns, largest and most brutal of all the dragons, the dread lords of wyrmkind.
One of them had woken.
The beast glided above the ship. As it passed, Loth could smell the heat inside it, the reek of smoke and brimstone.
The bear-trap of its mouth. The hot coals of its eyes. They wrote themselves into his memory. He had heard stories since he was a child, seen the hideous illustrations that lurked in bestiaries—but even his most harrowing nightmares had never conjured such a soul-fearing thing.
“Do not engage,” the Ment called again. “Steady!”
Loth pressed his back against the mainmast.
He could not deny what his eyes could see. This creature might not have the red scales of the Nameless One, but it was of his like.
The crew moved like ants fleeing water, but the wyrm appeared to have its mind set on another course. It soared over the Swan Strait. Loth could see the fire pulsing inside it, down the length of its throat to its belly. Its tail was edged with spines and ended in a mighty lash.
Loth caught the gunwale to hold himself upright. His ears were ringing. Close by, one of the younger seafarers was trembling all over, standing in a dark gold pool.
Harlowe had emerged from his cabin. He watched the High Western leave them behind.
“You had better start praying for salvation, my lords,” he said softly. “Fyredel, the right wing of the Nameless One, appears to have woken from his sleep.”
8
East
Sulyard snored. Yet another reason Truyde had been a fool to pledge herself to him. Not that Niclays would have been able to sleep even if his guest had shut up, for a typhoon had blown in.
Thunder rumbled, making a horse whinny outside. Drunk on a single cup of wine, Sulyard slept through it all.
Niclays lay on his bedding, slightly drunk himself. He and Sulyard had spent the evening playing cards and exchanging stories. Sulyard had told the gloomy tale of the Never Queen, while Niclays chose the more uplifting charms of Carbuncle and Scald.
He still had no liking for Sulyard, but he owed it to Truyde to protect her secret companion. He owed it to Jannart.
Jan.
The vise of grief snapped closed around his heart. He shut his eyes, and he was back to that autumn morning when they had met for the first time in the rose garden of Brygstad Palace, when the court of the newly crowned Edvart the Second was ripe with opportunity.
In his early twenties, when he was still Marquess of Zeedeur, Jannart had been tall and striking, with magnificent red hair that rippled to the small of his back. In those days, Niclays had been one of the few Ments to have a mane of fairest auburn, more gold than copper.
That was what had drawn Jannart to him that day. Rose gold, he had dubbed it. He had asked Niclays if he might paint his portrait, thus capturing the shade for posterity, and Niclays, like any vain young courtier, had been only too pleased to oblige.
Red hair and a rose garden. That was how it had begun.
They had spent the whole season together, with the easel and music and laughter for company. Even after the portrait was finished, they had stayed joined at the hip.