Imladrik looked at it long and hard. Though none but he would have known it, the Eltharin characters had been written in such a way as to conceal a second meaning amid the words, something that Yethanial had long delighted in doing. Trust him, the hidden text said, lost amongst the swirls and loops of the runic script.
‘Boastful and tiresome,’ said Caradryel ruefully. ‘I thought that a little harsh.’
‘She finds the company of most people tiresome,’ said Imladrik, reading the message again. ‘Do not take it personally.’
Seeing Yethanial’s calligraphy before him sharpened the sense of loss. He could imagine her, bent low over the writing desk, painstakingly drawing each character with the attention to propriety and order that characterised all her work. Beauty existed in everything she did – the kind of raw, bleak beauty that was prized in windswept Cothique.
‘We spoke at length before I set sail,’ said Caradryel. ‘She understood what I understand: that Tor Alessi is a den of wolves, ready to tear apart your plans as soon as you make them clear.’
‘My wife does not concern herself with statecraft.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Caradryel, ‘but she is a good judge of character. I approached her thinking I would persuade her easily; by the end, I was the one being examined. She is a formidable soul, if you will forgive me saying.’
‘She is. She always has been.’ Imladrik leaned back in his chair, feeling fatigue bite at his shoulders and wondering what to make of the figure before him. ‘If she had not vouched for you, all your honey-tongued words would have made little difference. But she did, and so you give me much to think on.’
Caradryel’s face become serious. ‘Think on it as much as you wish, my lord, but time is not on our side. I know what is happening here. I know that you wish to halt the war, but most in this city do not – they will work to frustrate you at every turn, even as they smile to your face and bow before you. You cannot fight them openly, because they will not contest you openly. Salendor is one; there may be others. If you truly wish to bend the city to your will, then we need to act now.’
‘I have done so. The orders have been issued.’
‘Ah, but will they be carried out?’
Imladrik smiled coldly. ‘Have a care, Caradryel. I am not some simpleton ripe to be lectured – I am your master. Remember that.’
‘Master?’ asked Caradryel, slyly. ‘So we do have an arrangement?’
‘Perhaps. Some tasks that need to be performed are difficult; I had not yet decided who to assign them to. One in particular might serve as a test: perform it well, and I will look on your application with favour. I need to contact someone. It must be done quietly, and it must be done quickly. It will be dangerous.’
‘Perfect,’ said Caradryel. ‘Who?’
‘His name is Morgrim Bargrum,’ said Imladrik. ‘He was a friend, once.’
‘A dwarf?’
‘If our scouts have it right, he is marching towards us even as we sit here. He will not be coming to talk.’
Caradryel smiled, though a little less assuredly. ‘A challenge, then. We will have to change his mind.’
‘To change a dwarf’s mind,’ Imladrik remarked dryly. ‘If you can achieve that, my friend, then I may start to believe your boasts.’
Chapter Ten
Thoriol woke late. The sunlight hurt his eyes and he squinted against it, holding his hand up to the window. There were no drapes. He had no idea why.
He felt sick, as though the floor were pitching under him, and let slip a weak groan of wine-sickness.
He opened his eyes wider, getting used to the glare slowly. It was then that he realised the floor really was moving. For a few moments he had no idea what was happening. A stab of panic shot through his stomach.
Then he smelled salt, saw the narrow window in one wall of the chamber, and felt the rough planks of decking beneath him.
At sea, he realised, which made him scarcely less panicked. How, in the name of Isha…?
He pushed himself into a seated position, head hammering from the rush of blood. The wine-sickness at least was no illusion – he felt like vomiting.
So he did. He managed to get to the far corner of the tiny cabin before his guts rebelled, then retched for a long time, leaving a foul puddle of saliva-strung bile against the curved wall of the ship’s hull.
Finishing made him feel only a little better. His whole body felt shivery and feverish. He had a dim recollection of a female elf with silk-like hair offering him something, but he couldn’t remember what it was. It had smelled good, that he did recall.
Hands shaking, he clawed his way back to where he’d awoken. He’d slept in his robes, the same ones he’d worn coming down from the Dragonspine. He peered cautiously at the window again. The movement of the horizon made his nausea worse.
What day is this? How long have I been asleep?
He got to his feet, bracing uncertainly against the movement of the cabin around him. The space was barely big enough to house him and he cracked his head on the low roof. Cursing, he fumbled for the clasp on the door. After a few false starts, he managed to push it open, and staggered out into a larger space beyond.
Three figures turned to face him, all seated around a long table covered in charts. Leaf-shaped windows ran down the two sides of a larger cabin, each running with spray as the ship pitched.
‘Good morning,’ said one of them, looking at Thoriol with a smile.
Thoriol stared back at him. The elf had strangely familiar features: a scar on his right cheek and a blunt, tanned face. For a minute he was taken back to that evening in the House of Pleasure. How
