Page 272 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Tané looked back at the stars.

In the South House, she had learned some of every language in the known world. She knew Inysh well enough, but she preferred that the strangers thought otherwise, lulling them into the false belief that they could speak freely.

“May I ask your name?” the Inysh man said.

Great Kwiriki, wash away this fool. Still, he knew about the waning jewel—that was reason enough to keep him alive.

“Tané,” she finally said.

“Tané.”

He said it gently. She stared him out.

Though he could be no more than thirty, and though he looked presently as if a smile had never been further from his face, there were already laugh lines around his full lips. His skin was the same deep brown as his eyes, which were large and full of warmth. His nose was broad, his jaw strong and unshaven, and his black hair puffed in small, tight curls.

She had the sense that he was kind.

Straight away, she shook off the thought. He hailed from a land that spat on her gods.

“If you cut me loose,” Loth said, “perhaps I can help you. You’ll have to stop in a day or two. To sleep.”

“You misjudge how long I can last without sleep.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You do speak Inysh.”

“Enough.”

The Westerner looked as if he might speak again, but seemed to think better of it. He leaned against the gunner and closed his eyes.

She would have to question him sooner or later. If he knew where the other jewel was, then it had to be returned to dragonkind—but first, she needed to reach Nayimathun.

When Loth finally dozed off, Tané took stock of the stars and turned the wheel. The jewel was like ice in her hand. If she continued like this, she would soon be in Komoridu.

She drank a little from her gourd and blinked the dryness from her eyes.

All she had to do was stay awake.

The Unending Sea was an exquisite sapphire blue that turned almost to violet when the sun set. There were no birds in the sky, and emptiness as far as the eye could see.

It was this emptiness that concerned Niclays. The fabled isle of Komoridu had yet to show itself.

He gulped from his flask of rose wine. The pirates had been generous tonight. Their leader had made it clear to them that if they found the riches of the world, they would owe it to the Master of Recipes.

And if they failed to find anything, all of them would know who was to blame.

Death had never held much power over him. He thought of it as he did an old friend that would one day knock again on his door.

For years, he had sought to make the elixir of immortality in the spirit of discovery. He had never meant to drink it. Death, after all, would either end the pain of grief or reunite him with Jannart in whichever afterlife proved to be the right one. Each day, each step, each tick of the clock took him closer to that golden possibility. He was tired of having half a soul.

Yet now death loomed, he did fear it. His hands shook as he gulped more wine. It occurred to him briefly that he ought to stop drinking, to keep his wits about him, but even sober, he would never be able to fight off a pirate. Best he was benumbed.

The ship kept cleaving through the water. Night painted darkness overhead. Soon enough, he was out of wine. He dropped the flask into the sea and watched it bob away.

“Niclays.”

Laya was hurrying up the stairs, clutching her shawl around herself. She took him by the arm.

“They’ve seen something ahead,” she said, eyes bright with dread or excitement. “The lookouts.”

---