It was only after he had reluctantly decided to wait for another ship that he suddenly remembered the parchments that old Vash had given him—the autarch’s writ. The whole memory seemed strange, as though it had happened to someone else, but the documents had served him well when he commandeered the first ship in Hierosol, and could do so again… if he still had them....
Fortunately, Daikonas Vo had not had the wit for most of the last month even to remember the oilskin pouch hidden behind his belt, so it was still there. The documents were still there, too, although a bit smeared and hard to read after his unexpected swim from Vilas’ boat to the Brennish shore. Still, the falcon glyph of Sulepis III was unmistakable, and the bright vermilion ink showed that it was no mere copy but a document approved by the autarch himself. With the waterlogged parchments clutched tight in his fist he headed toward the cog, reminding himself not to howl no matter how hot the sun felt or how his gut burned him.
The mulasim, the officer who came down when the guards at the top of the gangplank called him, was one of those old hands Vo had seen a thousand times. While the mulasim looked skeptically at Vo’s documents, the soldiers behind him stared at Vo himself. He couldn’t even imagine what he looked like, but the part of him that could think through the pain knew it must be bad. They might not doubt the documents themselves, but they were bound to wonder if he had stolen these from the real messenger.
“Hear me,” he said, summoning what felt like a great deal of strength to speak calm, sensible words. “I have taken tremendous injury in the autarch’s service. I have critical information to give him which he needs this moment. I have sworn my complete loyalty to the Golden One. If you refuse to take me to his camp, I will have no choice but to kill you all, then eat your hearts and livers so that I have the strength to swim across Brenn’s Bay.”
Something about the way he said it must have been convincing. When the ship left Onir Beccan on the evening tide, Vo was on board, with a great deal of the deck to himself.
Despite the dangers—and they were many—Matt Tinwright felt exhilarated to be out of the royal residence at night and on his own. Of course as bad as the inner keep had become it was still was nothing like the outer keep, which was so crammed with hungry, terrified people that walking across it at night would be taking your life in your hands even were it not for the destruction being rained down by the autarch’s cannons and the dangerous ruins left in the wake of the cannon fire.
Two days of freedom in a row! Tinwright prayed that Hendon Tolly would continue to be distracted just a bit longer.
He had considered waiting until late to try to sneak into his sister’s house, but the inner keep was almost as crowded with refugees as the outer; if he went during waking hours the noise from the camps would be good cover. He went through an empty shop and climbed out an upstairs window, then clambered across and dropped into a knacker’s yard, also deserted. From there, he made his way into that building and then climbed the stairs to the room at the top that his mother shared with Elan. He watched the street for some time, but could see no one obviously keeping an eye on the place.
To Tinwright’s disappointment, it was his mother who answered his discreet rap at the shutter. She had her triskelion clutched tightly against her stomacher until the shutter was halfway up, then she thrust a fist holding the chain through the gap so suddenly that she hit Tinwright in the chin as he was about to speak.
“The Brothers abjure you, foul demon!” cried Anamesiya Tinwright, then struck him on the ear with the triskelion.
“Sweet Zosim Salamandros, woman, what are you doing?” He tried to keep his voice down, but it still came out in a muffled shriek. “You’ve bloodied my nose! Let me in.”
“Matthias, is that you?” His mother stepped back as he half-clambered, half-fell through the window. “What are you doing at the window, you fool? I thought you were a demon!”
He sat on the floor collecting himself for a moment. “I am not. Do we agree on that? Or would you prefer to hit me again?”
“Matthias?” It was Elan this time, calling not from the bed but from a stool by the table where the single lamp burned. She had been sewing, and she looked so pretty in his sister’s simple clothes that it took him a moment to realize what she had called him. Not Matt, or even Matty, but Matthias. What his mother called him.
“Yes, it’s me.” He got up and dusted himself off, wiped a few drops of blood from his upper lip, then walked over to give Elan’s hand a kiss. “I’ve come to…”
“Do you have my money?” his mother asked. “It was the tennight three days ago.”
It was all Tinwright could do not to shout. He had to remind himself that there might very well be spies, even armed soldiers, watching the building. “I have been more or less Hendon Tolly’s prisoner, Mother, kept at his side morning and night.”
“Oh, so you truly are coming up in the world.” His mother smiled with pleasure. “We heard, but we were not sure…”
“You poor man,” said Elan. “Can you bear it? Is he cruel?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He sat down cross-legged beside her. “How are you, my lady? Is it too hard for you living in these…” he looked at his mother,”… rough circumstances?”
She laughed. “With what is going on around us? Did you know that the Erilonian shrine just one street over was blown into firewood by a cannonball? I am fortunate to have a place to live and people to help me.” She smiled teasingly. “Your mother has been very kind.”
“Oh, I have been filling Lady Elan’s head with the wonders of the temple and the stories of the gods’ kindness. She is all but signed and dismembered to become a Trigonate Sister.”
“Signed and delivered,” he said offhandedly. “I see now that I am not the only one suffering. You do not have to listen to her, Elan. She is used to her speeches being ignored.”
This time, the young woman’s smile was calmer, more genuine. “No. I like to hear of it. I think I might indeed find some peace, someday, in holy orders…” She saw the stricken look on Tinwright’s face and misunderstood it. “No, truly, I do not say it simply to please your mother.”
Anamesiya Tinwright nodded happily. “Lady Elan knows that the gods punish wickedness, and that the only way to avoid punishment is to do what the gods wish.…”
“But you have told us nothing of what brings you,” Elan said, cutting across his mother’s preamble. “Tell us your news, Matthias.”
“Ah!” He sat up. “You have reminded me—I brought you something.” He dug into the pocket of his doublet, where he had been carrying it next to his heart. “Here. It is a book of prayer with images of the life of Zoria.” He handed it to her. “It once belonged to Princess Briony. I found it in the chapel.”
Elan looked at it carefully, but she seemed less than ecstatic with the gift. “It is very beautiful, Matthias. Look at the paintings! Such skill!” She turned the pages slowly, then handed it back. “But I cannot accept such a gift. It belongs to the princess and if she comes back, she will want this lovely thing again.”
He was surprised and confused. “But… surely she would not begrudge it to someone who… who has suffered as you have suffered…”
“No, thank you. It is a kind thought and a lovely thing, but I can’t accept it.” She would not quite meet his eyes. “It belongs to someone else.”
“But what am I to do with it?”
She shook her head. “I do not know, Matthias.”