“The nightborn,” she said quietly. “What of him?”
He didn’t speak until he knew he had full control of his voice again. “I saw no sign of any nightborn creature, human or otherwise.”
“Did you search?”
His vision was returning to normal, but the giddyness remained. He articulated carefully. “I inspected everyone on board in the light of day. Some were pale, a few were burned, but no one seemed worse for the experience. I searched every cabin, with special attention to possible hiding places. I opened every crate on the ship and walked the length and breadth of every level . . . and I saw no nightborn creature there, nor any space that might have sheltered one. I’m sorry.”
She turned away from him; the room snapped suddenly back into normal perspective. “I had a vision,” she said softly. “A ship would come from the West, just as this one did, at just this time . . . and he would be on it, accompanied by a priest. He’s dangerous, Andir, an enemy of our Church and our people. If you tell me there was no man on that vessel who fit his description, I believe you. If you tell me there was no place on that vessel for him to hide, I believe that, too. But what are the odds that this one ship—the only merchant-ship ever sent from the West—would arrive at our shores at just this moment, fulfilling my prophecy in every detail but that one? God warned me of this man for a reason, Andir. We would do well to heed His warning.”
“He wasn’t on the ship, Holiness, and there was no sign of him. I swear it. But there was a priest, as you say, and a Sanctified woman tambia.”
She looked startled. “Sanctified? But that’s impossible. The West doesn’t have—”
And then she stopped herself, and chose her remaining words with care. “The last expedition gave us no reason to believe that the West had developed such an Order.”
“I saw her, Holiness. Verdate.”
She stared at him for a long while in silence, digesting that information. “All right,” she said at last. “It may be the ship I foresaw. Maybe not. Either way, I want the priest and the woman followed whenever they’re on shore. Discreetly, verda? And as for the others . . . what would you recommend?”
“I think we would profit from the trade they offer, your Holiness.” A vision of horses flashed before his eyes; with effort he suppressed it. “There are some things we need to take care of before they disembark, of course. The health issue concerns me; they may carry diseases we’re no longer immune to. I would like to feel secure that their cultural expectations are harmonious with our own, so that they don’t disrupt our society too much. And we presently have no import taxes which would apply to such a vessel . . . it might be well to get a couple on the books before we assess their cargo.”
The Matria smiled, displaying pure white teeth. “I’ve always liked your style, Andir. See that it’s done.” She offered him her hand again, and he stretched forward to kiss it. “I thank you for a thorough job, my Lord Regent. As always.”
“To serve you is to serve the Church,” he responded. His tone was one of absolute reverence, devoid of any political resentment. The latter had no place here—or anywhere, for that matter, save deep within his heart. There it coiled, like a venemous serpent. Undying. Unforgiving.
He pushed his chair back and stood. Then hesitated. He had another question, but wasn’t quite sure how to voice it. “Your Holiness . . .”
“You may speak freely,” she prompted.
“When this is all done . . . when they’ve made their rounds and traded their goods and packed up to go home . . . are you going to let them leave?”
It seemed to him that her smile faltered. Certainly the humor went out of her eyes. What took its place was hard and cold, and strangely predatory.
“When that time comes,” she promised, “we shall see.”
8
On the first day after the Glory dropped its anchor the inquisition began. It started at noon, when Lord Toshida arrived to “ask a few questions.” There were, of course, considerations of where to speak, whom to speak with first, questions of rank and protocol and, certainly, efficiency . . . and before anyone quite realized what was happening he had managed to maneuver the travelers in such a way that it was impossible for anyone he had questioned to make contact with those still awaiting interview. It was all very quietly done, all most politely managed, so much so that many of the passengers seemed not to realize the implications of Toshida’s strategy. Damien did, and he wasn’t happy. Not happy at all.
“Shit,” he muttered. Whispering the oath, lest Toshida’s guards—ever present, ever alert—should hear him. Hesseth looked sharply at him, and despite the tight-fitting coif which masked her head he had the distinct impression of furred ears pricking forward, to fix on his speech.
“Bad?” she whispered.
Very bad, an inner voice insisted. But for her sake he muttered, “Maybe.” Forcing the words out. “Let’s hope not.”
He had prepared the crew for a trial just like this. Hadn’t he? He had explained to the pagan crew members why it would be important for them to pretend to be of his faith, had given them the basic information they would need to persevere in that role . . . but would it work? If the Regent’s questions turned to religion, could they answer him safely based on what little knowledge they had? And what about Hesseth? Would the merchants remember that she was supposed to be human? Would they care enough to maintain that lie, if Toshida became suspicious? There was so much that Damien’s small company stood to lose if anyone made even a tiny slip—one passing reference to Hesseth’s fur, or Hesseth’s claws, or Hesseth’s alien nature. Or even worse, to Damien’s sorcery. Was the Regent listening for hints of such a secret? Was that why he had come on board?
And then, of course, there was Gerald Tarrant.
A cold wind gusted across his soul as he thought of the man. Tear down my walls, he had said, expose my belongings. See that nothing remains of my power. Damien had taken it one step further. He had asked the passengers and crew to pretend that the Neocount had never been on their ship at all. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and they seemed willing to play along. But would it be enough? If Toshida came to suspect that something was wrong, if he asked the right questions—perhaps threatening them openly, perhaps maneuvering them into a rhetorical corner where it was hard to maintain the lie—might not one of them slip up? It would only take one word, Damien reminded himself, one wrong, careless word . . .
And then the guard was standing before him and waiting, and it was clear from his manner that Damien’s time had come. With a prayer on his lips he followed the man, across the deck to the small cabin which Toshida had commandeered for his interviews. Ushered in by the guard, he entered. The shades inside were drawn, so that none might look in on them; even the sea view was shuttered. Two oil lamps cast cool golden light about the room and its occupants; its hue lent an eerie cast to the Regent’s dark skin, like that of an ancient bronze statue.
“Reverend Vryce.” The Regent’s tone was cool but cordial. “Please sit.”
He took the chair opposite Toshida’s own. Damien glanced down at the desk between them, noted several bills of lading, shipping specs, one map. Then they were gone, gathered up by Toshida’s dark hands and set far to one side, out of the lamplight.