Page 19 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Not a word,” she whispered to the spy, “or I will turn those lovely feathers into quills.”

The mimic chuckled darkly as Ead vaulted through the window.

They were lying side by side under the apple tree in the courtyard, as they often did in the high summer. A flagon of wine from the Great Kitchen sat beside them, along with a dish of spiced cheese and fresh bread. Ead was telling him about some prank the maids of honor had played on Lady Oliva Marchyn, and he was laughing so hard his belly ached. She was part poet and part fool when it came to telling stories.

The sun had lured out the freckles on her nose. Her black hair fanned across the grass. Past the glare of the sun, he could see the clock tower above them, and the stained-glass windows in the cloisters, and the apples on their branches. All was well.

“My lord.”

The memory shattered. Loth looked up to see a man with no teeth.

The hall of the inn was full of country-dwellers. Somewhere, a lutenist was playing a ballad about the beauty of Queen Sabran. A few days ago, he had been hunting with her. Now he was leagues away, listening to a song that spoke of her as if she were a myth. All he knew was that he was on his way to near-certain death in Yscalin, and that the Dukes Spiritual loathed him enough to have set him on that path.

How suddenly a life could crumble.

The innkeeper set down a trencher. On it sat two bowls of pottage, rough-cut cheese, and a round of barley bread.

“Anything else I can do for you, my lords?”

“No,” Loth said. “Thank you.”

The innkeeper bowed low. Loth doubted it was every day that he hosted the noble sons of Earls Provincial in his establishment.

On the other bench, Lord Kitston Glade, his dear friend, tore into the bread with his teeth.

“Oh, for—” He sprayed it out. “Stale as a prayer book. Dare I try the cheese?”

Loth sipped his mead, wishing it was cold.

“If the food in your province is so vile,” he said, “you should take it up with your lord father.”

Kit snorted. “Yes, he does rather enjoy that sort of dullness.”

“You ought to be grateful for this meal. I doubt there will be anything better on the ship.”

“I know, I know. I’m a soft-fingered noble who sleeps on swansdown, loves too many courtiers, and gluts himself on sweetmeats. Court has ruined me. That’s what Father said when I became a poet, you know.” Kit poked gingerly at the cheese. “Speaking of which, I must write while I’m here—a pastoral, perhaps. Aren’t my people charming?”

“Quite,” Loth said.

He could not feign light-heartedness today. Kit reached across the table to grasp his shoulder.

“Stay with me, Arteloth,” he said. Loth grunted. “Did the driver tell you the name of our captain?”

“Harman, I think.”

“You don’t mean Harlowe?” Loth shrugged. “Oh, Loth, youmusthave heard of Gian Harlowe. The pirate! Everyone in Ascalon—”

“I am patently not everyone in Ascalon.” Loth rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please, enlighten me as to what sort of knave is taking us to Yscalin.”

“A legendary knave,” Kit said in hushed tones. “Harlowe came to Inys as a boy from far-off shores. He joined the navy at nine and was captain of a ship by the time he turned eighteen—but he bit the hook of piracy, as so many promising young officers do.” He poured more mead into their tankards. “The man has sailed every sea in the world, seas that no cartographer has ever named. By plundering ships, they say he had amassed wealth to rival the Dukes Spiritual by the time he was thirty.”

Loth drank yet again. He had the feeling he would need another tankard before they left.

“I wonder, then, Kit,” he said, “why this infamous outlaw is taking us to Yscalin.”

“He may be the only captain brave enough to make the crossing. He is a man without fear,” Kit replied. “Queen Rosarian favored him, you know.”

Sabran’s mother. Loth looked up, interested at last. “Did she?”

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