Page 183 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Damned creature.” Niclays marked the position of the next character. “Won’t it be quiet?”

“It must miss being worshipped.”

Laya pulled the silk taut for him. As he worked, she scrutinized his face.

“Niclays,” she murmured, “how did Jannart die?”

His throat filled with the usual ache, but it was easier to swallow when he had something to occupy his mind.

“Plague,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

He had never spoken to a soul about Jannart. How could he, when nobody could know how close they had been? Even now, it made his insides flutter, but Laya was part of no court in Virtudom, and he found that he already trusted her. She would keep his secrets.

“You would have liked him. And he would have liked you.” His voice was hoarse. “Jannart adored languages. Ancient and dead ones, especially. He was in love with knowledge.”

She smiled. “Aren’t all you Ments a little in love with knowledge, Niclays?”

“Much to the distaste of our cousins in Virtudom. They often wonder at how we can question the foundations of our adopted religion, even though its bedrock is a single bloodline of no great exceptionality, which hardly seems sensib—”

The door snapped open then, letting in a gust of wind. They rushed to pin down the pages as the Golden Empress walked in, shadowed by Padar, whose face and chest were dripping in blood, and Ghonra, self-styled Princess of the Sundance Sea and captain of theWhite Crow. Laya had assured Niclays that her rare beauty belied an equally rare bloodlust. The tattoo on her brow was a puzzle they had yet to solve; it simply readlove.

Niclays kept his head down as she passed. The Golden Empress served herself a cup of wine.

“I hope you are almost finished, Sea-Moon.”

“Yes, all-honored Golden Empress,” Niclays said brightly. “Soon I will know the whereabouts of the tree.”

He concentrated as best he could with Padar and Ghonra breathing down his neck. When he had transferred the last of the characters, he blew lightly on the ink. The Golden Empress brought her cup of wine to the table (Niclays prayed very hard for her not to spill it) and studied his creation.

“What is this?”

He bowed to her. “All-honored Golden Empress,” he said, “I be- lieve these characters fromThe Tale of Komoridurepresent the stars—our most ancient means of navigation. If they can be matched to an existing star chart, I think they will lead you to the mulberry tree.”

She studied him from beneath the frontlet of her headdress. Its beads cast shadows on her brow.

“Yidagé,” the Golden Empress said to Laya, “do you know Old Seiikinese?”

“Some, all-honored captain.”

“Read the characters.”

“I do not think they are supposed to be read as words,” Niclays offered, “but as—”

“Youthink, Sea-Moon,” said the Golden Empress. “Thinkers bore me. Now, read, Yidagé.”

Niclays held his tongue. Laya hovered her finger over each of the characters.

“Niclays.” A line creased her brow. “I think theyaremeant to be read as words. There is a message here.”

His nerves evaporated. “There is?” He pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. “Well, what does it say?”

“The Way of the Outcasts,” Laya read aloud, “begins at the ninth hour of night. The . . . rising jewel—” She squinted. “Yes,the rising jewel—is planted in the soil of Komoridu. From under the Magpie’s eye, go south and to the Dreaming Star, and look beneath the—” When she reached the last character of the final pane, she let out a breath. “Oh. These are the characters formulberry tree.”

“The star charts,” Niclays said, breathless. “Can these patterns be matched to the sky?”

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