Kit clapped him on the back and went into one of the chambers. Loth slotted his key into the other door.
It took his eyes a moment to attune to the shadows in his bedchamber. The Yscals might have declared their allegiance to the Nameless One, but they clearly spared no expense in the upkeep of their ambassadors-in-residence. Nine windows lined the west-facing wall, one smaller than the others. On closer inspection, this turned out to be a door to an enclosed balcony.
A canopy bed dominated the north end of the room. An iron candle holder stood beside it. The candles were formed of a pearlescent wax, and their flames were red. True red. His chest had been set down nearby. On the south end, he swept aside a velvet curtain to discover a stone bath, full to the brim with steaming water.
The windows made him feel as if all Yscalin could see in. He closed the drapes and snuffed all but a handful of the candles. They released a puff of black smoke when extinguished.
He sank into the water and lay there for a long while. When his aches had dulled, he found a cake of olive soap and set about getting the ash from his hair.
Wilstan Fynch might have slept in this very chamber while he investigated the murder of Queen Rosarian, the woman he had loved. He might have been here when the lavender fields burned, and when the birds flew out with news that the Chainmail of Virtudom had lost a link.
Loth poured water over his head. If someone in Cárscaro had arranged for Queen Rosarian to die, that same person might be trying to kill Sabran. To remove her before she gave Virtudom an heir. To resurrect the Nameless One.
With a shiver, Loth rose from the bath and reached for the folded linen beside it. He used his knife to shave, leaving a patch of hair on his chin and a little on his upper lip. As he worked, his mind lingered on Ead.
He was sure Sabran was safe with her. From the moment he had first seen her in the Banqueting House—a woman with acorn skin and watchful eyes, whose posture had been almost regal—he had sensed an inner warmth. Not the heat of wyrmfire, but something soft and golden, like the first light of a summer morning.
Margret had been telling him for a year that he should marry Ead. She was beautiful, she made him laugh, and they could talk for hours. He had brushed his sister off—not only because the future Earl of Goldenbirch could not take a commoner as a bride, as she knew full well, but because he loved Ead as he loved Margret, as he loved Sabran. As a sister.
He had not yet experienced the all-consuming love reserved for a companion. At thirty, he was more than old enough to be wed, and he longed to honor the Knight of Fellowship by partaking in that most sacred institution.
Now he might never have a chance.
A silk nightshirt was laid out on the bed, but he donned his own, crumpled from travel, before stepping on to the balcony.
The air was cooling. Loth rested his arms on the balustrade. Below him, Cárscaro sprawled toward the sheer drop to the plateau. The glow from the lava stained every street. Loth watched a silhouette plummet from above and drink from the river of fire.
At midnight, he gingerly climbed into the bed and drew the coverlet to his chest.
When he slept, he dreamed his sheets were poisoned.
Close to noonday, Kit found him sitting by his table in the shade of the balcony, gazing down at the plateau.
“Well met, sirrah,” Loth said.
“Ah, sirrah, ’tis a beautiful day in the land of death and evil.” Kit was carrying a trencher. “These people might worship the Nameless One, but what fine beds! I never slept better.”
Kit could never be serious, and Loth could never help but smile at his outlook, even here. “Where did you find food?”
“The first place I look for in any new building is the kitchen. I hand-signed at the servants until they understood that I was famished. Here.” He set the trencher on the table. “They will bring us something more filling later.”
The board was piled with fruit and toasted nuts, a jug of straw wine and two goblets. “You ought not to have wandered off alone, Kit,” Loth said.
“My belly waits for no man.” When he saw his expression, Kit sighed. “All right.”
The sun was an open wound, the sky a thousand variations on pink. A pale mist hung over the plain. Loth had never seen a view quite like it. They were shielded from the brunt of the heat, but their collarbones were jeweled with sweat.
It must have been unspeakably beautiful when the lavender still grew. Loth tried to imagine walking through the open-air corridors in the summer, warmed by a perfumed breeze.
Was it fear or evil that had seized King Sigoso, to corrupt this place the way he had?
“So,” said Kit, through a mouthful of almonds, “how are we to approach the Donmata?”
“With the greatest courtesy. As far as she knows, we are here as permanent ambassadors-in-residence. I doubt she will think it suspicious if we ask what became of the last one.”
“If they did something to Fynch, she will lie.”
“Then we will ask for evidence that he is alive.”
“You do not demand evidence from a princess. Her word is law.” Kit peeled a blood orange. “We are spies now, Loth. You had better stop listening to that trusting nature of yours.”
“What shall we do, then?”
“Blend into the court, act like good ambassadors, and find out what we can. There may be other foreign diplomats here. Someone must know something useful.” He gave Loth a sunny smile. “And if all else fails, I shall flirt with the Donmata Marosa until she opens her heart to me.”
Loth shook his head. “Knave.”
A rumble passed through Cárscaro. Kit caught his cup before the wine could spill.
“What was that?”
“A quake,” Loth said, unsettled. “Papa told me once that fire mountains can cause such things.”
The Yscals would not have built a city here if it could be razed by a quake. Trying not to think about it, Loth took a sip of his wine, still haunted by the thought of what Cárscaro must once have been. Humming, Kit took out his quill and a small knife.
“Poesy?” Loth asked.
“Inspiration has yet to strike. Terror and creativity, in my experience, do not often walk hand in hand.” Kit set about sharpening the quill. “No, this is a letter. For a certain lady.”
Loth clicked his tongue. “Why you haven’t told Kate how you feel is beyond me.”
“Because though I am charming in person, I am Sir Antor Dale on the page.” Kit shot him an amused look. “Do you think they send their letters by bird or basilisk nowadays?”
“Cockatrice, most likely. It combines the qualities of both.” Loth watched his friend remove an inkwell from a pouch. “You know Combe will burn any letters we send.”
“Oh, I have no intention of trying. If Lady Katryen never reads this, so be it,” Kit said lightly, “but when the heart grows too full, it overflows. And mine, inevitably, overflows on to a page.”
A knock rang out in the chamber behind them. Loth glanced at Kit before he went to open the door, ready to use his baselard.
Outside was a servant in a black doublet and breeches.
“Lord Arteloth.” He wore a pomander. “I am come to tell you that Her Radiance, the Donmata Marosa, will see you in due course. For now, you and Lord Kitston must go to the physician, so Her Radiance may be assured that you do not carry any sickness to her door.”
“Now?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The last thing Loth wanted was to be prodded at by a physician with Draconic sympathies, but he doubted they had a choice.
“Then please,” he said, “do lead the way.”
16
East
The rest of the water trials passed in a haze. The night when they were told to swim against the current in the swift-flowing river. The duel with nets. Demonstrating competence in signaling to other riders. Sometimes there would be a day between them, and sometimes many days. And before Tané knew it, the final trial was on top of her.
Midnight found her in the practice hall again, coating the blade of her sword with clove oil. The smell of it cleaved to her fingers. Her shoulders ached and her neck was rigid as a tree stump.
This sword could win or lose her everything tomorrow. She could see her own bloodshot eyes in its flat.
Rain drizzled from the rooftops of the school. On her way back to her quarters, she heard a muffled laugh.
The door to a small balcony was open. Tané glanced over the balustrade. In the courtyard below, where pear trees grew, Onren and Kanperu were sitting together, heads bowed over a game board, fingers intertwined.
“Tané.”
She startled. Dumusa was looking out from her own quarters, dressed in a short-sleeved robe, holding a pipe. She joined Tané on the balcony and followed her gaze.
“You must not be envious of them,” she said after a long silence.
“I am not—”
“Peace. I envy them too, sometimes. How easy they seem to find it. Onren, especially.”
Tané hid her face behind her hair.