“Do not despair, Niclays.” Eizaru laid a hand on his shoulder. “The honored Queen Sabran will relent. Until then, Purumé and I will seek permission to visit you in Orisima.”
It took Niclays all his strength to swallow his disappointment. It went down like a mouthful of thorns.
“That would be wonderful.” He dredged up a smile. “Come, then. I suppose I had better enjoy the city while I can.”
Purumé was absorbed in setting a bone, so once he was dressed, Niclays set out alone with Eizaru to the fish market. The sea lashed a stinging wind across the city, fogging his eyeglasses, and in his jaundiced state, the gazes he received seemed more suspicious than ever. As they passed a robe shop, its owner scowled at him. “Sickness-bearer,” she snapped.
Niclays was too downcast to respond. Eizaru directed a stern look at the woman over his eyeglasses, and she turned away.
In the moment his attention was diverted, Niclays trod on a booted foot.
He heard an intake of breath. Eizaru clutched him in time to break his fall, but the young Seiikinese woman whose foot he had squashed was not so fortunate. Her elbow knocked into a vase, which shattered on the paving stones.
Damn it all, he was like an olyphant in a teahouse.
“Excuse me, honorable lady,” Niclays said, and bowed deep. “I was not paying attention.”
The merchant stared glumly at the shards. Slowly, the woman turned to face Niclays.
Black hair was wrapped into a knot at the crown of her head. She wore pleated trousers, a tunic of deep blue silk, and a velvet surcoat. A fine sword hung at her side. When he saw the sheen on the tunic, Niclays was unable to stop his mouth popping open. Unless he was mistaken, that was watersilk. Erroneously named—it was not a silk at all, but hair. The manehair of dragons, to be precise. It repelled moisture like oil.
The woman took a step toward him. Her face was angular and brown, her lips chapped. Dancing pearls adorned her throat.
But what seared itself into his memory, in the few moments their gazes held, was the scar. It whipped across her left cheekbone before curling toward the corner of her eye.
Exactly like a fishhook.
“Outsider,” she murmured.
Niclays realized that the crowd around them had fallen almost silent. The back of his neck prickled. He had the sense that he had just committed a greater transgression than blundering.
“Honorable citizen, what is this man doing in Ginura?” the woman asked Eizaru curtly. “He should be in Orisima, with the other Mentish settlers.”
“Honored Miduchi.” Eizaru bowed. “We humbly apologize for interrupting your day. This is the learnèd Doctor Roos, an anatomist of the Free State of Mentendon. He is here to see the all-honored Warlord.”
The woman cut her gaze between them. There was a rawness in her eyes that spoke of disturbed nights.
“What is your name?” she asked Eizaru.
“Moyaka Eizaru, honored Miduchi.”
“Do not let this man out of your sight, honorable Moyaka. He must always have an escort.”
“I understand.”
She tossed Niclays a final look before she strode away. As she turned, he caught sight of a golden dragon on the back of her jacket.
She had long, dark hair, and a scar at the top of her left cheek. Like a fishhook.
By the Saint, it had to be her.
Eizaru paid the merchant for his loss and hurried Niclays into a cobbled lane. “Who was that, Eizaru?” Niclays asked in Mentish.
“The honored Lady Tané. She is Miduchi. Rider of the great Nayimathun of the Deep Snows.” Eizaru dabbed his neck with a cloth. “I should have bowed lower.”
“I will repay you for the vase. At, er, some point.”
“It is only a few coins, Niclays. The knowledge you gave me in Orisima is worth far more.”
Eizaru, Niclays decided, was as close as anyone could get to being flawless.
The two of them reached the fish market in the nick of time. Silver crabs spilled from nets of wheatstraw, gleaming like the steel armor of knights. Niclays almost lost Eizaru in the ensuing scramble, but his friend emerged triumphant, his eyeglasses askew.
It was almost sunset by the time they got back to the house. Niclays feigned another headache and retreated to his room, where he sat beside the lantern and rubbed his brow.
He had always prided himself on his brain, but it had been idle of late. It was high time he set it to work.
Tané Miduchi was, without question, the woman Sulyard had seen on the beach. Her scar betrayed her. She had brought an outsider into Cape Hisan on that fateful night and then handed him over to a musician, who was now languishing in prison. Or headless.
The bobtail cat jumped into his lap, purring. Niclays absently scratched between its ears.
The Great Edict required islanders to report trespassers to the authorities without delay. Miduchi should have done that. Why, instead, had she enlisted a friend to hide him in the Mentish trading post?
When he realized, Niclays let out such a loud “ha!” that the cat sprang off his lap in fright.
The bells.
The bells had been ringing the next day, heralding the ceremony that would open the way for Miduchi to become a dragonrider. If an outsider had been discovered in Cape Hisan the night before, the port would have been closed to ensure there was no trace of the red sickness. Miduchi had hidden Sulyard in Orisima—isolated from the rest of the city—so as not to disturb the ceremony. She had put her ambition above the law.
Niclays weighed his options.
Sulyard had agreed to tell his questioners about the woman with the fishhook scar. Perhaps he had, but no one had realized who it was. Or taken a trespasser at his word. Niclays, however, was protected by the alliance between Seiiki and Mentendon. That had shielded him against punishment before, and it might just aid him now.
He might still save Sulyard. If he could muster the courage to accuse Miduchi during his audience with the Warlord, before witnesses, the House of Nadama would have to act upon it, or risk appearing to dismiss their Mentish trading partners.
Niclays was quite sure there was some way to turn this to his advantage. If only he knew what it was.
Purumé came home at nightfall with bloodshot eyes, and the servants prepared the silver crab with fine-cut vegetables and rice steamed with chestnuts. The flaky white meat was delectable, but Niclays was too deep in thought to appreciate it. When they were finished, Purumé retired, while Niclays stayed at the table with Eizaru.
“My friend,” Niclays said, “please pardon me if this is an ignorant question.”
“Only ignorant men do not ask questions.”
Niclays cleared his throat. “This dragonrider, Lady Tané,” he began. “From what I can tell, the riders are almost as esteemed as the dragons. Is that correct?”
His friend considered for some time.
“They are not gods,” he said. “There are no shrines in their honor—but they are revered. The all-honored Warlord is descended from a rider who fought in the Great Sorrow, as you know. The dragons see their riders as their equals among humankind, which is the greatest honor.”
“With that in mind,” Niclays said, trying to sound casual, “if you knew that one of them had committed a crime, what would you do?”
“If I knew beyond all possible doubt that it was true, I would report it to their commander, the honored Sea General, at Salt Flower Castle.” Eizaru tilted his head. “Why do you ask, my friend? Do you believe one of them has committed a crime?”
Niclays smiled to himself.
“No, Eizaru,” he said. “I was only speculating.” He changed the subject: “I have heard that the moat around Ginura Castle is full of fish with bodies like glass. That when they glow at night, you can see right the way to their bones. Tell me, is that true?”
He did love the delicious onset of a good idea.
Tané found a foothold and pushed with all her strength, reaching for an overhang. Beneath her, the sea crashed against a smattering of rocks.
She was halfway up the volcanic stack that rose from the sea at the mouth of Ginura Bay. It was called the Grieving Orphan, for it stood alone, like a child whose parents had been shipwrecked. As her fingertips touched stone, her other hand slipped on sea moss.
Her stomach lurched. For a moment, she thought she would fall and shatter every bone—then she shoved herself upward, snatched the overhang, and clung to it like a barnacle. With a last, tremendous effort, she got on to the ledge above and lay there, breathing hard. It had been reckless to climb without her gloves, but she had wanted to prove to herself that she could.
Her mind kept returning to that Ment in the street, and the way he had stared at her. As if he had recognized her. It was impossible, of course—she had never seen him before. But why that look of shock?
He was a large man. Wide in the shoulders, broad in the chest, paunchy in the stomach. Eyes like clove, hooded with age, set in a sallow and blunt-edged face. Gray hair that held glints of copper. A mouth with a history of laughter etched around it. Round eyeglasses.
Roos.
Finally, it came to her.
Roos. A name Susa had whispered to her so briefly, it had almost been carried away by the wind.