Page 20 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“She did. They say he was in love with her.”

“I hope you are not suggesting that Queen Rosarian was ever unfaithful to Prince Wilstan.”

“Arteloth, my surly northern friend—I never said she returned the love,” Kit said equably, “but she liked the man enough to bestow on him the largest ironclad ship in her fleet, which he named theRose Eternal. Now he calls himselfprivateerwith impunity.”

“Ah. Privateer.” Loth managed a slight chuckle. “The most sought-after title in all the world.”

“His crew has captured several Yscali ships in the last two years. I doubt they will take kindly to our arrival.”

“I imagine the Yscals take kindly to very little nowadays.”

They sat in silence for some time. While Kit ate, Loth gazed out of the window.

It had happened in the dead of night. Retainers wearing the winged book of Lord Seyton Combe had entered his chambers and ordered him to come with them. Before he knew it, he had been bundled into a coach with Kit—who had also been marched from his lodgings under cover of darkness—and shown a note to explain his circumstances.

Lord Arteloth Beck—

You and Lord Kitston are now Inysh ambassadors-in-residence to the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin. The Yscals have been informed you are coming.

Make enquiries about the last ambassador, the Duke of Temperance. Observe the court of the Vetalda. Most importantly, find out what they are planning, and if they intend to mount an invasion of Inys.

For queen and country.

The note had been jerked out of his hands within moments, and presumably carried off to be burned.

What Loth could not work out waswhy. Why he, of all people, was being sent to Yscalin. Inys needed to know what was happening in Cárscaro, but he was no spy.

The hound of despair was on his back, but he could not let it buckle him. He was not alone.

“Kit,” he said, “forgive me. You have been forced to join me in my exile, and I have been poor company.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I’ve always rather fancied an adventure.” Kit smoothed back his flaxen curls with both hands. “Since you’re finally talking, though, we ought to speak about our . . . situation.”

“Don’t. Not now, Kit. It’s done.”

“You must not think Queen Sabran ordered your banishment,” Kit said firmly. “I tell you, this was arranged without her knowledge. Combe will have told her you left court of your own free will, and she will have doubts about her spymaster. You must tell her the truth,” he urged. “Write to her. Disclose to her what they have done, and—”

“Combe reads every letter before it reaches her.”

“Could you not use some cipher?”

“No cipher is safe from the Night Hawk. There is a reason why Sabran made him her spymaster.”

“Then write to your family. Ask them for their help.”

“They will not be granted an audience with Sabran unless they go through Combe. Even if they are,” Loth said, “it will be too late for us by then. We will already be in Cárscaro.”

“They should still know where you are.” Kit shook his head. “Saint, I’m beginning to think youwantto leave.”

“If the Dukes Spiritual believe I am the best person to find out what has transpired in Yscalin, then perhaps I am.”

“Oh, come, Loth. You know why this is happening. Everyone tried to warn you.”

Loth waited, brow furrowed. With a sigh, Kit drained his tankard and leaned in closer.

“Queen Sabran is not yet married,” he murmured. Loth tensed. “If the Dukes Spiritual favor a foreign match for her, your presence at her side . . . well, it complicates things.”

“You know Sab and I havenever—”

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