“Rise,” said the Sea General, sounding pleased. “Well fought. Honorable Tané of the South House, victory is yours.”
The spectators applauded. Tané handed the halberd to a servant and extended a hand to Onren.
“Did I hurt you?”
Onren let Tané help her up. “Well,” she said, panting, “I suspect you’ve broken my kneecap.”
A puff of briny air came from behind them. The green Lacustrine dragon was grinning at Tané over the rooftop, showing all her teeth. For the first time, Tané smiled back.
Distantly, she realized that Onren was still speaking.
“Sorry,” she said, light-headed with joy. “What did you say?”
“I was only observing how the fiercest warriors can hide behind such gentle faces.” They bowed to each other before Onren nodded to the benches, where the apprentices were still clapping. “Take a good look at Turosa. He knows he has a fight on his hands.”
Tané followed her gaze. Turosa had never looked so angry—nor so determined.
11
West
“There it is,” Estina Melaugo said, with a sweeping gesture toward land. “Feast your eyes on the Draconic cesspit of Yscalin.”
“No, thank you.” Kit drank from the bottle they were sharing. “I would much rather my death was a surprise.”
Loth peered through the spyglass. Even now, a day after seeing the High Western, his hands were unsteady.
Fyredel. Right wing of the Nameless One. Commander of the Draconic Army. If he had woken, then the other High Westerns would surely follow. It was from them that the rest of wyrmkind drew strength. When a High Western died, the fire in its wyverns, and in their progeny, burned out.
The Nameless One himself could not return—not while the House of Berethnet stood—but his servants could wreak destruction without him. The Grief of Ages had proven that.
There had to be a reason they were rising again. They had fallen into their slumber at the end of the Grief of Ages, the same night a comet had crossed the sky. Scholars had speculated for centuries as to why, and to when, they might wake, but no one had found an answer. Gradually, everyone had begun to assume that they never would. That the wyrms had become living fossils.
Loth returned his attention to what he could glimpse through the spyglass. The moon was a half-closed eye, and they floated on water as dark as his thoughts. All he could see was the nest of lights that was Perunta. A place that might be crawling with Draconic plague.
The sickness had first oozed from the Nameless One, whose breath, it was said, had been a slow-acting poison. A more fearsome strain had arrived with the five High Westerns. They and their wyverns carried it, the same way rats had once carried the pestilence. It had existed only in pockets since the end of the Grief of Ages, but Loth knew the signs from books.
It began with the reddening of the hands. Then a scalelike rash. As it tiptoed over the body, the afflicted would experience pain in the joints, fever and visions. If they were unlucky enough to survive this stage, the bloodblaze set in. They were at their most dangerous then, for if not restrained, they would run about screaming as if they were on fire, and anyone whose skin touched theirs would also be afflicted. Usually they died within days, though some had been known to survive longer.
There was no cure for the plague. No cure and no protection.
Loth snapped the spyglass closed and handed it to Melaugo.
“I suppose this is it,” he said.
“Don’t abandon hope, Lord Arteloth.” Her gaze was detached. “I doubt the plague will be in the palace. It’s those of us you call the commons who suffer most in times of need.”
Plume and Harlowe were approaching the bow, the latter with a clay pipe in hand.
“Right, my lords,” the captain said. “We’ve enjoyed having you, truly, but nothing lasts forever.”
Kit finally seemed to grasp the danger they were in. Either he was cupshotten or he had lost his wits, but he clasped his hands. “I beseech you, Captain Harlowe—let us join your crew.” His eyes were fevered. “You need not tell Lord Seyton. Our families have money.”
“What?” Loth hissed. “Kit—”
“Let him speak.” Harlowe motioned with his pipe. “Carry on, Lord Kitston.”
“There is land in the Downs, good land. Save us, and it’s yours,” Kit continued.
“I have the high seas at my feet. Land is not what I need,” Harlowe said. “What I need is seafarers.”
“With your guidance, I wager we could be outstanding seafarers. I come from a long line of cartographers, you know.” An outright lie. “And Arteloth used to sail on Elsand Lake.”
Harlowe regarded them with dark eyes.
“No,” Loth said firmly. “Captain, Lord Kitston is uneasy about our task, but we are duty-bound to enter Yscalin. To see that justice is done.”
With a face like a skinned apple, Kit seized him by the jerkin and pulled him aside.
“Arteloth,” he said under his breath, “I am trying to get us out of this. Because this”—he turned Loth toward the lights in the distance—“has nothing to do with justice. This is the Night Hawk sending us both to our deaths for a pennyworth of gossip.”
“Combe may have exiled me for some ulterior purpose, but now I stand on the brink of Yscalin, I wish to find out what happened to Prince Wilstan.” Loth placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you want to turn back, Kit, I will bear you no ill will. This was not your punishment.”
Kit looked at him, frustration etched on to him. “Oh, Loth,” he said, softer. “You’re not the Saint.”
“No, but he has got balls,” Melaugo said.
“I’ve no time for this pious talk,” Harlowe cut in, “but I do concur with Estina on the subject of your balls, Lord Arteloth.” His gaze was piercing. “I need people with hearts like yours. If you think you could weather the seas, say it now, and I’ll put it to my crew.”
Kit blinked. “Really?”
Harlowe was expressionless. When Loth kept his peace, Kit sighed.
“I thought not.” Harlowe dealt them a cold stare. “Now, get the fuck off my ship.”
The pirates jeered. Melaugo, whose lips were pursed, beckoned to Loth and Kit. As his friend turned to follow, Loth gripped his arm.
“Kit,” he murmured, “take the chance and stay behind. You are not a threat to Combe, not like I am. You could still go back to Inys.”
Kit shook his head, a smile on his lips.
“Come now, Arteloth,” he said. “What little piety I have, I owe to you. And he might not be my patron, but I know the Knight of Fellowship tells us not to leave our friends alone.”
Loth wanted to argue with him, but he found himself smiling back at his friend. They walked side by side after Melaugo.
They had to descend on a rope ladder from the Rose Eternal. Their polished boots slipped on the rungs. Once they were settled in the rowing boat, where their traveling chests waited, Melaugo climbed in with them.
“Hand me the oars, Lord Arteloth.” When Loth did, she whistled. “See you soon, Captain. Don’t leave without me.”
“Never, Estina.” Harlowe leaned over the side. “Farewell, my lords.”
“Keep those pomanders close, lordlings,” Plume added. “Wouldn’t want you catching anything.”
The crew roared with laughter as Melaugo pushed away from the Rose.
“Don’t mind them. They’d piss themselves before they ever did what you’re doing.” She glanced over her shoulder. “What made you offer up your services as a pirate, Lord Kitston? This life’s not like it is in songs, you know. There’s a little more shit and scurvy.”
“A stroke of brilliance, I thought.” Kit shot her a look of mock hurt. “I take the Knight of Courtesy as my patron, mistress. She commands poets to beautify the world—but how can I, unless I see it?”
“There’s a question I’d need a few more drinks to answer.”
As they drew closer to the shore, Loth took out his handkerchief and pressed it to his nose. Vinegar and fish and acrid smoke formed the rotten posy of Perunta. Kit kept up a smile, but his eyes were watering.
“How refreshing,” he managed.
Melaugo did not smile. “Do keep those pomanders,” she said. “Worth having, if only for comfort.”
“Is there nothing we can do to protect ourselves?” Loth said.
“You can try not to breathe. Folk say the plague is everywhere, and no one is sure how it spreads. Some wear veils or masks to keep it out.”
“Nothing else?”
“Oh, you’ll see merchants peddling all sorts. Mirrors to deflect the foul vapors, countless potions and poultices—but you might as well swallow your gold. Best thing to do is put the afflicted out of their misery.” She maneuvered the boat around a rock. “I can’t imagine you two have seen much death.”
“I resent your assumption,” Kit objected. “I saw my dear old aunt upon her bier.”
“Yes, and I suppose she wore a red gown for her meeting with the Saint. I suppose she was as clean as a licked kitten and smelled of rosemary.” When Kit grimaced, Melaugo said, “You have not seen death, my lord. You have only seen the mask we put on it.”