Page 116 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

When he realized, Niclays let out such a loud “ha!” that the cat sprang off his lap in fright.

Thebells.

The bells had been ringing the next day, heralding the ceremony that would open the way for Miduchi to become a dragonrider. If an outsider had been discovered in Cape Hisan the night before, the port would have been closed to ensure there was no trace of the red sickness. Miduchi had hidden Sulyard in Orisima—isolated from the rest of the city—so as not to disturb the ceremony. She had put her ambition above the law.

Niclays weighed his options.

Sulyard had agreed to tell his questioners about the woman with the fishhook scar. Perhaps he had, but no one had realized who it was. Or taken a trespasser at his word. Niclays, however, was protected by the alliance between Seiiki and Mentendon. That had shielded him against punishment before, and it might just aid him now.

He might still save Sulyard. If he could muster the courage to accuse Miduchi during his audience with the Warlord, before witnesses, the House of Nadama would have to act upon it, or risk appearing to dismiss their Mentish trading partners.

Niclays was quite sure there was some way to turn this to his advantage. If only he knew what it was.

Purumé came home at nightfall with bloodshot eyes, and the servants prepared the silver crab with fine-cut vegetables and rice steamed with chestnuts. The flaky white meat was delectable, but Niclays was too deep in thought to appreciate it. When they were finished, Purumé retired, while Niclays stayed at the table with Eizaru.

“My friend,” Niclays said, “please pardon me if this is an ignorant question.”

“Only ignorant men donotask questions.”

Niclays cleared his throat. “This dragonrider, Lady Tané,” he began. “From what I can tell, the riders are almost as esteemed as the dragons. Is that correct?”

His friend considered for some time.

“They are not gods,” he said. “There are no shrines in their honor—but they are revered. The all-honored Warlord is descended from a rider who fought in the Great Sorrow, as you know. The dragons see their riders as their equals among humankind, which is the greatest honor.”

“With that in mind,” Niclays said, trying to sound casual, “if you knew that one of them had committed a crime, what would you do?”

“If I knew beyond all possible doubt that it was true, I would report it to their commander, the honored Sea General, at Salt Flower Castle.” Eizaru tilted his head. “Why do you ask, my friend? Do you believe one of themhascommitted a crime?”

Niclays smiled to himself.

“No, Eizaru,” he said. “I was only speculating.” He changed the subject: “I have heard that the moat around Ginura Castle is full of fish with bodies like glass. That when they glow at night, you can see right the way to their bones. Tell me, is that true?”

He did love the delicious onset of a good idea.

Tané found a foothold and pushed with all her strength, reaching for an overhang. Beneath her, the sea crashed against a smattering of rocks.

She was halfway up the volcanic stack that rose from the sea at the mouth of Ginura Bay. It was called the Grieving Orphan, for it stood alone, like a child whose parents had been shipwrecked. As her fingertips touched stone, her other hand slipped on sea moss.

Her stomach lurched. For a moment, she thought she would fall and shatter every bone—then she shoved herself upward, snatched the overhang, and clung to it like a barnacle. With a last, tremendous effort, she got on to the ledge above and lay there, breathing hard. It had been reckless to climb without her gloves, but she had wanted to prove to herself that she could.

Her mind kept returning to that Ment in the street, and the way he had stared at her. As if he hadrecognizedher. It was impossible, of course—she had never seen him before. But why that look of shock?

He was a large man. Wide in the shoulders, broad in the chest, paunchy in the stomach. Eyes like clove, hooded with age, set in a sallow and blunt-edged face. Gray hair that held glints of copper. A mouth with a history of laughter etched around it. Round eyeglasses.

Roos.

Finally, it came to her.

Roos. A name Susa had whispered to her so briefly, it had almost been carried away by the wind.

He was the one who had hidden the outsider.

There was no reason he should be in Ginura. Not unless he was here to testify about that night. The thought locked her chest. She recalled his perceptive look in the street, and it sent a shudder through her.

With a clenched jaw, she stretched toward the next handhold. Whatever Roos thought he knew about her or Susa, he had no proof. And the outsider would be dead by now.

When she reached the top, she stood, palms bloody. The watersilks worked like feathers—one quick shake and they were dry.

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