and there.”
He got to his feet, Nan rolled up the map, and we were on the road in half an hour.
The palashos were numerous indeed; they dotted the countryside like carbuncles. Some days we stopped at two or three. Word got out that I played flute and Abdo danced, so we were often asked to perform. The Ninysh sometimes brought out dancers of their own. Abdo watched with rapt attention and then imitated the leaps and posturing all the way upstairs to bed. At some point Moy began to teach him the saltamunti and the voli-vola.
“Baronet Des Faiasho screamed in my face this evening,” I reported, about a week into our journey, to Glisselda and Kiggs from one of Palasho Faiasho’s guest rooms.
“Oh no!” cried Glisselda, simultaneously with Kiggs’s “Are you all right?”
I was reclining upon a four-poster bed that was draped in silk and bulging with feather bolsters; Des Faiasho knew how to treat a guest, even one he’d screamed at. “I’m fine. As ever, Josquin was right: these lords aren’t all gracious about what they owe Goredd. Some get defensive.”
“Josquin sounds like he’s quite often right,” said Kiggs drily.
I wanted so badly to tease him for being jealous, but of course I couldn’t. Luckily, Glisselda piped up: “Josquin this, Josquin that! Don’t let the suave Ninysh rascal lure you away. We want you home after all this.”
“Ah, Your Majesty, jealousy does not become you,” I said to Glisselda, sending Kiggs an indirect message. I rolled onto my stomach and propped myself on my elbows. “In any case, after clarifying that Goredd can’t push him around, Des Faiasho went on to commit fifteen hundred fighting men, armed and supplied, as well as grain, blacksmiths, carpenters—”
Glisselda listened no further than the number of men. She whooped in a most unqueenlike fashion. “An army! We’re accreting a foreign army. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Kiggs, I knew, would be jotting everything down conscientiously, so I continued listing supplies and specialists, finishing with the baronet’s strangest offer of all: “Des Faiasho importssabanewt oil from the southern archipelagoes. He insists it’s a worthy substitute for naphtha in pyria.” Pyria was a sticky, flammable substance the knights employed in their martial art, the dracomachia.
“Is he certain it works?” said Glisselda, attentive again.
“I’m certain he wants to sell us some,” I said. “I can have samples sent.”
“Have them sent to Sir Maurizio at Fort Oversea so the knights can test it,” said Glisselda. “No one here can make St. Ogdo’s fire.”
“That’s not entirely true,” said Kiggs quietly. “The murder at that warehouse involved pyria. If our suspect in custody can’t make it himself, he knows who can.”
“Murder?” I asked, alarmed.
“I forget that things happen here that you don’t hear about,” said Glisselda. “Comonot established a dragon garrison shortly after you left. He called it ‘a large gesture of good faith.’ He said that several times, in case there was any mistaking.”
I was glad he’d taken my advice and unsurprised by the ham-handed execution.
“It’s gone over badly,” said Kiggs. “The Sons of St. Ogdo are crawling out of their ratholes again. Protests, mostly, but also one violent riot, saarantrai assaulted, and a female dragon officer missing. We found her burned body in a warehouse by the river.”
I closed my eyes, sickened. The Sons of St. Ogdo were a clandestine brotherhood of fanatical dragon-haters. Half the trouble at midwinter had been their fault; they so despised dragonkindthat they were easily persuaded—by the dragon Imlann, in human form—to participate in the assassination attempts against Comonot. Lars’s estranged brother, Josef, Earl of Apsig, had been in the thick of things; he’d returned to Samsam in the end, tail between his legs, humiliated to learn he’d done the bidding of a dragon.
“His large gesture of good faith has
He got to his feet, Nan rolled up the map, and we were on the road in half an hour.
The palashos were numerous indeed; they dotted the countryside like carbuncles. Some days we stopped at two or three. Word got out that I played flute and Abdo danced, so we were often asked to perform. The Ninysh sometimes brought out dancers of their own. Abdo watched with rapt attention and then imitated the leaps and posturing all the way upstairs to bed. At some point Moy began to teach him the saltamunti and the voli-vola.
“Baronet Des Faiasho screamed in my face this evening,” I reported, about a week into our journey, to Glisselda and Kiggs from one of Palasho Faiasho’s guest rooms.
“Oh no!” cried Glisselda, simultaneously with Kiggs’s “Are you all right?”
I was reclining upon a four-poster bed that was draped in silk and bulging with feather bolsters; Des Faiasho knew how to treat a guest, even one he’d screamed at. “I’m fine. As ever, Josquin was right: these lords aren’t all gracious about what they owe Goredd. Some get defensive.”
“Josquin sounds like he’s quite often right,” said Kiggs drily.
I wanted so badly to tease him for being jealous, but of course I couldn’t. Luckily, Glisselda piped up: “Josquin this, Josquin that! Don’t let the suave Ninysh rascal lure you away. We want you home after all this.”
“Ah, Your Majesty, jealousy does not become you,” I said to Glisselda, sending Kiggs an indirect message. I rolled onto my stomach and propped myself on my elbows. “In any case, after clarifying that Goredd can’t push him around, Des Faiasho went on to commit fifteen hundred fighting men, armed and supplied, as well as grain, blacksmiths, carpenters—”
Glisselda listened no further than the number of men. She whooped in a most unqueenlike fashion. “An army! We’re accreting a foreign army. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Kiggs, I knew, would be jotting everything down conscientiously, so I continued listing supplies and specialists, finishing with the baronet’s strangest offer of all: “Des Faiasho importssabanewt oil from the southern archipelagoes. He insists it’s a worthy substitute for naphtha in pyria.” Pyria was a sticky, flammable substance the knights employed in their martial art, the dracomachia.
“Is he certain it works?” said Glisselda, attentive again.
“I’m certain he wants to sell us some,” I said. “I can have samples sent.”
“Have them sent to Sir Maurizio at Fort Oversea so the knights can test it,” said Glisselda. “No one here can make St. Ogdo’s fire.”
“That’s not entirely true,” said Kiggs quietly. “The murder at that warehouse involved pyria. If our suspect in custody can’t make it himself, he knows who can.”
“Murder?” I asked, alarmed.
“I forget that things happen here that you don’t hear about,” said Glisselda. “Comonot established a dragon garrison shortly after you left. He called it ‘a large gesture of good faith.’ He said that several times, in case there was any mistaking.”
I was glad he’d taken my advice and unsurprised by the ham-handed execution.
“It’s gone over badly,” said Kiggs. “The Sons of St. Ogdo are crawling out of their ratholes again. Protests, mostly, but also one violent riot, saarantrai assaulted, and a female dragon officer missing. We found her burned body in a warehouse by the river.”
I closed my eyes, sickened. The Sons of St. Ogdo were a clandestine brotherhood of fanatical dragon-haters. Half the trouble at midwinter had been their fault; they so despised dragonkindthat they were easily persuaded—by the dragon Imlann, in human form—to participate in the assassination attempts against Comonot. Lars’s estranged brother, Josef, Earl of Apsig, had been in the thick of things; he’d returned to Samsam in the end, tail between his legs, humiliated to learn he’d done the bidding of a dragon.
“His large gesture of good faith has
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