Page 52 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Is there nothing we can do to protect ourselves?” Loth said.

“You can try not to breathe. Folk say the plague is everywhere, and no one is sure how it spreads. Some wear veils or masks to keep it out.”

“Nothing else?”

“Oh, you’ll see merchants peddling all sorts. Mirrors to deflect the foul vapors, countless potions and poultices—but you might as well swallow your gold. Best thing to do is put the afflicted out of their misery.” She maneuvered the boat around a rock. “I can’t imagine you two have seen much death.”

“I resent your assumption,” Kit objected. “I saw my dear old aunt upon her bier.”

“Yes, and I suppose she wore a red gown for her meeting with the Saint. I suppose she was as clean as a licked kitten and smelled of rosemary.” When Kit grimaced, Melaugo said, “You have not seen death, my lord. You have only seen the mask we put on it.”

They sat in silence from then on. When the water was shallow enough to wade in, Melaugo stopped rowing.

“I’ll go no closer.” She nodded to the city. “You’re to go to a tavern called the Grapevine. Someone should collect you.” She pushed Kit with the toe of her boot. “Go, now. I’m a privateer, not a milk nurse.”

Loth stood. “Our thanks to you, Mistress Melaugo. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

“Please forget it. I’ve a reputation to uphold.”

They struck out from the boat with their chests. When they were both on the sand, dripping wet, Melaugo sculled back to theRose Eternal, singing in quavering Yscali.

Harlowe might have taken them both. They could have seen places that no longer had names, oceans that had never been cross-stitched by trading routes. Loth could have found himself at the prow of his own ship one day—but he was not that man, and never would be.

“Not our most dignified entrance.” Panting, Kit let his chest fall. “How do you suppose we find this tavern?”

“By . . . relying on our instincts,” Loth said, unsure. “The commons must get on well enough.”

“Arteloth, we are courtiers. We have no useful instincts.”

Loth had no counterstroke.

They made slow progress into the city. The chests were heavy, and they had neither map nor compass.

Perunta had once been known as the most beautiful port in the West. These mud-clotted streets, overflowing with fish bones and ashes and swill, were not what Loth had imagined. A dead bird writhed with maggots. Cesspits overflowed. In one unlit square, a sanctuary lay in ruins. Sabran had heard reports that King Sigoso had executed the sanctarians who would not renounce the Saint, but she had not wanted to believe them.

Loth tried not to breathe as he stepped over a rivulet of dark liquid. He dared not stray too far from Kit. People jostled around them, shrouding their faces with veils or cloth rags.

They saw their first plague house on the next street. Boards had been nailed over the windows, the oak door stained with scarlet wings. Yscali words were chalked above it.

“Pity this house, for here we are cursed,” Kit read.

Loth looked askance at him. “You read Yscali?”

“I know. You’re shocked,” Kit said gravely. “After all, I am such a master of Inysh, such a prodigy of verse, it seems impossible that I could have room in my skull for another language, but—”

“Kit.”

“Melaugo told me the translation.”

The darkness was disorienting. Few candles were lit in Perunta, though braziers fumigated the broader streets. By dint of striding about with as much confidence as possible, Loth and Kit finally happened upon the tavern where they were to meet their escort to Cárscaro. Its sign displayed a bunch of succulent black grapes that had no business in this sump.

A coach waited outside. Built of what Loth was quite sure was iron, it terrified him even before he wondered what sort of horse could draw such a thing. Then he saw.

A great wolfish head turned to look at him, and a massive jaw, packed with teeth, slackened to let slip a rope of drool.

The creature was larger than a bear. Its thick neck tapered into a serpentine body, which could be moved by its muscular legs or a pair of bat wings. At its side was a second monster, this one furred with gray. Their eyes were identical. Embers from the Womb of Fire.

Jaculi.

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