Page 25 of The War of Four Winters

"And Michail claims to speak for the gods?" I asked.

"According to every sailor, merchant, and refugee crossing the Barren Sea." Tariq's golden eyes glinted in the lamplight.

Every Broken Blade tensed as something moved beneath his elaborately embroidered coat, creating an unsettling ripple across the fabric. Suddenly, a small scaled head emerged from his collar, followed by clawed feet that gripped the rich material as a creature about the size of a large cat crawled out and settled on his shoulder. It blinked sleepy golden eyes, then yawned, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.

"Meet Bashqara," Tariq said, as if having a miniature dragon emerge from his clothing was perfectly normal. "Or Bash, as she prefers. Won her in a card game against a Savarran fire priest two years ago. One of my more fortunate victories, though the priest might disagree." He winked at Caris, who remained stoically unimpressed. "Don't let her adorable face fool you. She's outlived three assassins who thought they could catch me sleeping."

I stared at the creature. It was unmistakably a dragon, though smaller than any I had ever heard described. Its scales gleamed like polished copper in the lantern light, and tiny wisps of smoke curled from its nostrils as it studied us with intelligent eyes.

"A dragon," I said flatly. "You brought a dragon aboard our ship."

"A very small dragon," Tariq corrected. "Barely more than a hatchling, really. And quite well-behaved when she chooses to be."

As if to contradict him, the creature hissed and a small jet of flame shot from its mouth, singeing the edge of Tariq's elaborate coat. He didn't seem surprised or concerned, merely tapping the dragon lightly on its snout.

"Manners, Bash. We're guests here."

The dragon snorted, more smoke curling from its nostrils, but settled back against Tariq's chest like an oversized, scaly cat.

"So you oppose Michail on principle?" I asked.

"I oppose murder and tyranny wrapped in religious justification," he corrected. "In Savarra, we value freedom. The freedom to worship as we choose, to love whom we choose." He spread his hands expansively. "From what I hear, our brother doesn't just want power. He wants to impose his narrow vision on everyone. The tales reaching Savarran ports speak of public executions, of families torn apart for not showing proper devotion."

I thought of the messenger's dying words in the undercroft. Salvation. Cleansing. Faith. The pieces aligned with what Tariq described.

"And now you're sailing straight toward Homeshore," Tariq continued, his golden eyes serious despite his casual tone. "Word travels fast on the trade winds. Every port from here to Savarra buzzes with news that the elvish king's human consort is heading to confront his brother." He glanced at the Broken Blades arrayed around us. "I thought we might... accidentally cross paths. Call it family curiosity."

The coincidence seemed too convenient, but there was an earnestness beneath his flamboyant manner that gave me pause. "You diverted from your usual routes just to meet me?"

Tariq's smile widened, revealing perfect teeth. "I've been curious about my remaining siblings for years. When I heard you'd not only survived Michail's purge but thrived—becoming consort to an elvish king, no less!—well, how could I resist?" He winked. "Besides, I was already in these waters. There's excellent plunder between here and the Yeutish coast. Merchants heavy with winter supplies, all sailing predictable routes."

"You're admitting to piracy in front of the king's consort?" Caris asked, her tone incredulous.

"I prefer 'creative redistribution of wealth,'" Tariq corrected with a flourish. "And I only target those who can afford the loss. The truly rich or the truly wicked." His golden eyes sparkled with mischief. "Sometimes both, if I'm fortunate."

"Why should we believe anything you say?" Caris demanded. "A self-proclaimed pirate who happens to appear exactly where we seek shelter?"

"Because I have no love for Michail either," Tariq replied, his hand unconsciously moving to a scar that peeked above his collar. "He sent assassins for me too, remember? Three attempts in the last year alone." His smile returned, though sharper now. "I sent their heads back, of course.”

“We should cut off his head and be on our way,” Caris snarled, hand on her sword.

He turned to Caris, his eyes glinting with mischief despite the grim topic. "Hmm. I'd wager you'redevastatingwith that blade. Though I must say I'd much rather offer you a different part of my anatomy—one I've been told is equally impressive and considerably more entertaining." He flashed a roguish grin. "I've never met a woman who could resist once she'd seen all I have to offer."

Caris didn't rise to the bait, her expression remaining professionally neutral. Tariq sighed dramatically.

"No one appreciates the art of proper flirtation anymore," he lamented, before his eyes found mine again.

"What exactly are you doing in Saltmire?" I asked. "This isn't exactly on common trade routes."

"The best hideaways never are," he replied with a wink. "I know all the forgotten coves and hidden harbors from here to the Burning Seas. Perfect for waiting out storms—both natural and magical."

I narrowed my eyes. "The storm that drove us here wasn't natural. Captain Yisra called it battle magic."

Tariq's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "You think I had something to do with that?" He laughed, though it held an edge of wariness. "I'm flattered you think me so powerful, brother, but that wasn't my doing."

One of his men—a thin, severe-looking individual with complex tattoos visible at his wrists—cleared his throat. Tariq glanced at him and sighed dramatically.

"Fine, not entirely my doing," he amended. "Malik here is a weather witch of considerable talent." He gestured to the tattooed man, who offered a stiff half-bow. "He sensed the disturbance in the weather patterns this morning and warned us to seek shelter. We were already halfway to Saltmire when the storm fully manifested."

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