Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-eight
Divinity cannot die. It can be weakened, it can be worn down to its nadir and kept there, but it cannot be killed. The storm rages. The blight remains. The tide bears its terrible spoils. And faith, if it persists, will one day be rewarded with their return.
—EXCERPT FROM CONFISCATED HERETICAL TRACTS
SOON, MORTIMER AND BUTTONS are set up in a dry, cozy stable, and I’m in a dry, cozy little room nestled in the eaves of the guesthouse.
It’s on the small side, but there’s a convenient stair that leads directly to Nolan’s room below.
I utilize this immediately, tapping sharply on the door until he throws it open, looking vaguely annoyed.
Undeterred, I push past him into the room.
Rooms. Probably not as grand (or as expensive) as wherever Tychus had in mind for us, but there’s a charming sitting area, adjacent bedroom, and, best of all, a private bathroom.
“You have a tub?” I jump into the empty porcelain basin. “I’m using this.”
“Good,” Nolan calls. “You smell like you’ve been on a ship for a week.”
“I smell like I’ve been marinating in the scent of your puke for a week.” I abandon the tub and return to the sitting room. “Are those lemon slices in your water pitcher? I barely got a clean blanket. Next time I get to play the rich merchant.”
His expression hardens. He’s got the letter I found on the Renderer out, apparently in the process of examining it again. “This isn’t a game.”
“I know that.”
“Then act like it.”
And here I thought his mood would improve being back on land. Silly me. “At least we know we’re in the right place.”
“That doesn’t help us narrow down where to look for the heretics.
” He plunks himself down into an overstuffed chair and peers at the signature.
“Are these letters in an alphabet? Glyphs that represent words or some instruction? For all we know, what these symbols mean drawn on the wall and in the context of that letter are two entirely different things.”
It’s true. “Well, it’s clear they’ve been around since Jogue’s time, so they must be familiar. We could just, y’know, ask someone.”
“Without knowing what it says? Or what that reveals about us?”
“Fine.” I snatch the letter away. “We’ll figure it out on our own. But it’s too late to start searching the city, or for your attitude. So, I vote for dinner.” Nolan’s mouth thins. “Oh, sorry, is your tummy still feeling icky?”
He doesn’t move from the chair. “Have something sent up.”
I want to protest—the common room downstairs seemed a lot more interesting than being stuck up here alone with Nolan—but the sour set of his demeanor keeps my mouth shut.
Instead, I stomp downstairs, find Hiram behind the bar, and repress the urge to see if he has any jellied eel or fermented fish for my dear employer. “What’s on the menu today?”
Hiram stops drying the mug he’s holding and thinks, as if more than one task at a time is too much. He doesn’t strike me as the swiftest sort, but there’s a thoughtfulness to his countenance that tells me he’s no fool either. “I’ve got stew now or roast chicken in a little while.”
“We’ll take both, upstairs. And wine.”
Hiram hands me a bottle and two cups. “I’ll bring up the rest shortly.”
I rejoin Nolan and pour for us both. He accepts it, continuing to stare at the letter quietly, as if there’s something there he hasn’t found in all the hours of staring before.
I wasn’t expecting sparkling conversation, but I thought we’d gotten past the contemptuous silence.
At the same time, trying to force him to pay attention to me feels like more of an act of desperation than I’m willing to concede.
So I embrace the peace, leaning back into my chair and stretching my legs out, enjoying taking up space after so long on a cramped ship.
After a little while—and several refills to both our cups—Hiram delivers the food. I thank the man; Nolan ignores him.
“I don’t think it would be amiss”—I drop the tray on the table with more force than strictly necessary—“to keep sprinkling on that false charm.”
An unamused look is my reply.
“Fine. Be cranky and unfriendly.” I claim a bowl of stew and dunk my spoon into it. “See how well that serves us here.”
“I’m not cranky.” But he pokes his food in a way that makes it clear there’s something on his mind.
I wait for him to say something, to air whatever concern has gotten its fangs in him, but instead, he takes a bite.
And then another, and another. Hiram included a basket of bread and he takes a piece of that too, practically shoving it into his mouth between spoonfuls.
“Guess you do have your appetite back. Slow down. Wouldn’t want you to choke.
” I have to admit, though, the stew is good—far better than anything we had on the Squid’s Shadow.
Nolan practically licks his bowl clean, then starts in on the roast chicken and braised vegetables.
There’s a second bottle of wine as well.
Hiram may be a bit slow, but he clearly anticipates what his customers want.
Halfway through that, Nolan’s cup drops abruptly to the table. I wait, the gesture catching my attention, but a long moment passes before he finally says: “You feel it too, don’t you?”
I chew a mouthful thoughtfully, knowing what he means but wanting him to say it aloud. To admit it. “Feel what?”
His features pinch. “The distance… from the Goddess’s light.
From their flame.” There’s the faintest slur to his words, a slight thickening.
Whether he isn’t used to so much wine or he’s still weak after his seasickness, Nolan is a little drunk.
Which is probably the only reason he’s willing to call attention to what I’m sure he considers another weakness.
“I thought time… more prayer might… It’s worse than I expected. ”
I’m not surprised. Nolan was smothered in seasickness as we sailed farther and farther from Lumeris, a gradual incremental sensation for me that’s now hitting him all at once.
“Of course I feel it. It’s like…” I can’t quite find the right description.
“Like what we would have felt if we’d left the Cloisters for the Orders, only, y’know, worse.
” He doesn’t seem any less perturbed. “And I get that you’re impatient.
I am too. We need to find the reliquary before the heretics strike again, and neither of us wants to be here any longer than necessary.
But what did you say back in Phrygis? ‘There’s no smashing through the door here, killing everyone to get what you want.
’ Same goes for Cyprene, except you’ll need to summon twice as much of that horseshit charisma here.
Which means you have to play merchant for as long as it takes and keep anyone from getting suspicious of us. ”
He picks at a bit of bread.
“So are you going to keep up appearances or will I have to—”
“Do what?” he snarls, sharply enough to set me on guard. “I’m the one who’s seen the heretic we’re after. All you’ve got is a few symbols on a bit of paper.”
My anger rises to meet his—I’ve got more than the stupid letter, I want to spit, resisting the urge to pull out the Renderers’ foul wares and their book from where I’ve hidden them—but suddenly he appears remorseful. Even a little embarrassed.
“I’m… sorry. This feeling, it…” He doesn’t finish.
“Yeah, you’re also going to need to learn to hold your wine better than that if you want to blend in.”
Nolan scowls. “I’m being serious, Lys. I…
I had a lot of time on the ship to think.
” He takes another long sip of wine, as if bracing himself against his own honesty.
“I want to be Executrix. But more than that—more than anything—I want to protect the Goddess in any way I can. And… maybe I haven’t been as good at that as I should have been.
Starting with how I’ve treated you. After what you said…
about our time in the Cloisters, the competition…
there’s more than a little truth to it.”
“Oh, you’re definitely drunk, aren’t you?” I manage not to sound flippant, surprisingly. “You’d think the Goddess would want their Chosen to work together to serve them.”
He considers this. “They do… but they also want our loyalties to be to them, and only them.”
And not to each other.
That part hangs in the air, unsaid.
“As a result, we are ill-suited to a shared task,” Nolan finishes. “No matter how important it is.”
I scoff. “I don’t know, I don’t think we’re doing half bad. Really, we’re at only one murder attempt and one maiming so far. That was, like, a typical day around Morgan.”
Nolan chuckles. Then he laughs. Actually laughs, a sincere sound that would be at home in the Petrel’s common room below.
A sound that could almost have been between friends, if not for secrets kept.
“We should assume we are being watched at all times,” Nolan warns as we move through the crowded streets the next day.
“Yes,” I reply, with a dramatic flair. “But by whoooom?”
He grimaces at me.
I roll my eyes, wondering how slow Nolan thinks I am.
If there’s one thing Cyprene would be wary about, it’s newcomers.
Maybe we aren’t so interesting as to draw attention.
Or maybe there are Renderers all about and they’ve already spotted us.
There’s no way of knowing. “If we don’t take a few risks, we’re not going to learn anything.
The reliquary isn’t going to drop in our laps while we’re sitting in your fancy suite, is it? ”
He’s got no response to that.