Page 237 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Combe chuckled humorlessly, but it turned into a cough.

“I would have earned it,” he rasped. “You see, Lord Arteloth, while my eyes are everywhere, I closed them to those of holy blood. Iassumedthe loyalty of the other Dukes Spiritual. And so, I did not watch.”

He was shivering more than ever.

“I had evidence against Igrain,” Combe went on, “but I had to tread carefully. She had occupied the Queen Tower, you understand, and any rash move against her could have endangered Her Majesty. I conferred with Lady Nelda and Lord Lemand, and we decided that the best option would be to go to our estates, return with our retinues, and quench the spark of usurpation. Fortunate, my lord, that you arrived first, or there might have been a great deal more bloodshed.”

There was a pause while Loth thought it over. Much as he disliked the man, it had the ring of truth.

“I understand that Igrain grasped for power just as I banished Lady Nurtha, so I may appear complicit in her crimes,” Combe said while Loth digested this, “but I call the Saint to witness that I have done nothing unbeseeming an honest man. Nor have I done anything unworthy of my place beside the Queen of Inys.” His gaze held steady. “She may be the last Berethnet, but sheisa Berethnet. And I mean for her to rule for a long time yet.”

Loth considered the man who had exiled him to near-certain death. There was something in those eyes that spoke of sincerity, but Loth was no longer the trusting boy who had been sent away. He had seen too much.

“Will you speak against Crest,” he finally said, “and surrender your physical evidence?”

“I will.”

“And will you send a sum of money to the Earl and Countess of Honeybrook?” Loth asked. “For the loss of their only heir, Kitston Glade. Their beloved son.” His throat clenched. “And the kindest friend who ever lived.”

“I will. Of course.” Combe inclined his head. “May the Knight of Justice guide your hand, my lord. I pray you are kinder than her descendant.”

54

East

The Sundance Sea was so crystal-clear that the sunset turned it to pure ruby. Niclays Roos stood at the prow of thePursuit, watching the waves roll and swell.

It was good to be on the move. ThePursuithad docked for weeks in the ruined city of Kawontay, where merchants and pirates who defied the sea ban had built a thriving shadow market. The crew had loaded the ship with enough provisions and sweet water for a return journey, and enough gunpowder and other ordnance to flatten a city.

In the end, they had not sold Nayimathun. The Golden Empress had decided to keep her as leverage against the High Sea Guard.

Niclays pressed a hand to his tunic, where a vial of blood and the scale he had carved from the creature was concealed. Every night, he had taken out the scale to examine it, but all he could remember, when his fingers traced its surface, was the way the dragon had looked at him as he cleaved its armor from its flesh.

A rustle pulled his gaze up. ThePursuitwas flying the crimson sails of a plague ship, purchased to aid its passage through the Sundance Sea. Nonetheless, it remained the most recognizable vessel in the East, and it had soon drawn the vengeful eye of Seiiki. When the High Sea Guard and its dragonriders had come to meet them, the Golden Empress had sent a rowing boat out with a warning. She would gut the great Nayimathun like a fish if so much as an inch of her ship was harmed, or if she caught any of them following. As evidence that she still had the dragon, she had sent one of its teeth.

Every dragon and ship had fallen back. They could hardly have done otherwise. Still, it was likely they were giving chase at a distance.

“There you are.”

Niclays turned. Laya Yidagé came to stand beside him.

“You looked pensive,” she said.

“Alchemists are supposed to look pensive, dear lady.”

At least they were moving. With every star they sailed under, they inched closer to the end.

“I paid a visit to the dragon.” Laya pulled her shawl closer. “I think it’s dying.”

“Has it not been fed?”

“Its scales are drying out. The crew throw buckets of seawater on it, but it needs to be immersed.”

Wind gusted across the ship. Niclays hardly noticed its bite. His cloak was heavy enough that he was as snug as a bear in its hide. The Golden Empress had gifted him these clothes after naming him Master of Recipes, a title given to court alchemists in the Empire of the Twelve Lakes.

“Niclays,” Laya said under her breath, “I think that you and I ought to make a plan.”

“Why?”

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