Chapter Thirty
Thirty
The devoted have spent centuries developing methods to connect with the divine—prayer, fasting, meditation. But there’s only one way to truly experience the power of the gods. And it’s not cheap.
—THE HERETIC IBEN
THE SUN IS BARELY above the cliffs the next morning when we are back in the streets of Cyprene, making discreet inquiries about the locations of the other salt baths.
Nolan starts the day with fresh optimism, but at each location, we are met with the same results: welcoming but wary priests, who turn their noses up at the bait Nolan lays.
By the time the dusk turns Cyprene blush pink, clouds of irritated disappointment have gathered around him again, threatening a full-on storm.
He tries to hide it, but the effects of being so far from the Goddess have left the intangible veils Nolan draws around himself more frayed than they used to be.
Back in his suite, he slams the door so hard it makes me jump…
as well as abandon the suggestion that we dine in the common room again.
Instead, I simply watch as he throws himself into a chair, furrows dug deep in his brow.
“I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?” I remain standing, crossing my arms. “They’re heretics. Even in Cyprene, they don’t survive by inviting strangers into their inner circles an hour after meeting them.”
“It doesn’t bother you that we are getting nowhere?”
“Of course it does! But what does it solve to have both of us throwing a tantrum about it?”
I’m not even sure he heard me. “None of their plans are financed with faith. But when a fortune is dangled in front of their faces, they don’t seem to care in the least.”
“Maybe that’s not what they want.” It’s a bad idea, the one that’s been growing since last night, a little mushroom out of shit, but Nolan isn’t the only one disappointed by the day’s fruitless search.
The thought sprouted as I picked through the Renderers’ book, another endeavor that came to nothing.
We are both right. We can’t push too hard without risking our whole venture coming apart.
But infinite patience isn’t an option either… especially for me. “Or what they need.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe,” I continue, bracing myself, “they’ll be more forthcoming if we can give them something useful. Something that we know they’d never turn down.”
Nolan’s eyes narrow. “And that is…?”
Slowly, I remove the lacquer box from within my jacket and set it on the table between us. Surprise flickers on Nolan’s face, but only briefly before it’s replaced by an iron coldness as I remove the top, revealing the jars and vials within. “You took that?”
“Sure did. Thought it might come in handy.”
Something new flashes at my glib explanation. Something dark. One hand reaches for the box, then stops, as if he can’t bring himself to touch it. “You took that. Knowing what it was… who it was.”
“Yes.” I shift in my chair, feeling the weight of the cookbook move with me; that secret I’ll be keeping to myself.
“I saved it because it was what the heretics were willing to risk everything for. What’s in that box is worth more than any fortune you could allude to.
If we want the heretics to pay attention to us, well then, there you go.
” I let my proposal sink in. “Is it better that Prior Fedic died for nothing?”
Nolan stands suddenly, and for a moment, I think our truce has shattered. But instead of violence, he stalks to the other end of the room, not looking at me, or at what lies on the table. Fists balled, he takes a long breath, followed by another, and another.
My palms practically burn for a weapon; whatever version of Nolan this is, I don’t like it. The room suddenly feels as if I’m sharing it with some unfamiliar beast.
“If you’re praying on it, I bet I know what the Goddess would say.”
And here I am, poking it.
“They’d say,” I continue, as the muscles in his shoulders tighten further, “do what we need to in order to find the reliquary.”
There’s another taut stretch of silence. Then he turns back, features unreadable. “That should have been left in Sethane to be purified. To burn.”
I expected vitriol. Even yelling. This—this flat, fortified absence of emotion—is somehow more threatening. Still, it says something that he hasn’t lost his temper… yet. “But…?”
His mouth thins. “But it wasn’t. And as indescribably vile and unthinkable as it is, you may be right.”
I lean back, letting a satisfied smile rise. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“That I’m right.”
It’s a gamble, prodding him like this, in sensitive spots, but I don’t know what’s worse: Nolan turning his anger on me—in whatever form that takes—or him sensing that there’s a part of him that genuinely scares me. One that I just summoned with the revelation of the Renderers’ wares.
“It might not be enough,” he continues, ignoring my teasing. “We’re still strangers. They’ll want this, but they won’t trust us. We need someone they will.”
A good point. But I’ve got a solution for that too. “Tychus.”
“Tychus?” Nolan is skeptical. “He seemed more ambitious than accomplished.”
“But he’s known here. And it’s clear he’s had less-than-scrupulous dealings from time to time. Also, we don’t know anyone else. So, unless you want to make friends with whatever random unsavory sorts we can find, Tychus is our man.”
I wait for an argument, but Nolan has none.
The White Gull is small but tasteful, tucked into a district of Cyprene that boasts a spectacular view of the bay below.
There, we find Tychus taking his dinner on the spacious patio that makes up the guesthouse’s roof.
The setting sun paints a long swath of warmth across the water below, speckled occasionally by birds drifting on the wind.
“And here I was”—Tychus offers a thin smile—“thinking our paths might not cross again.”
Nolan sits across from him as I stand a few paces back, attention trading between them and the stairs leading up from the guesthouse below.
If there’s one thing this particular meeting requires, it’s privacy.
But between the look Tychus threw the proprietor when he delivered us and the surrounding trellises thickly woven with flowering vines, we’ve got the perfect setup for some seedy dealings.
Tychus pours a translucent liquid for Nolan, who accepts the glass graciously and sips. He grimaces. “Mm. Brinier than I expected.”
“A Cyprene specialty.” Tychus downs his in one gulp. “They say the salt cleanses the lies from one’s lips. Though”—he tips his head conspiratorially—“I’ve never found it to be a hinderance.”
Nolan gives an amused chuckle.
“How is your visit so far?” Tychus turns away to gaze over the water. It’s a door deliberately opened; he’s shrewd enough to know Nolan isn’t here without good reason.
“Not as fruitful as I’d hoped.” A frustrated sigh. “I expected the people here to be wary of newcomers but…” He pauses, as if considering. “Well, I thought that the promise of enough profit might overcome that particular barrier.”
Tychus scoffs. “Cyprene is not wanting for riches; you must have gleaned that by now. Perhaps your business propositions don’t quite tantalize here in the same way they might on the mainland.”
“That’s not the problem,” Nolan says. “I know what I have to offer is desirable. But… only to the right parties. And finding those parties has been the challenge.”
Tychus sits a little straighter. “Oh? And who exactly would that be?”
Nolan does a brilliant job of hesitating.
A story winds its way over his face, frustration shifting to a new wariness, as if he’s suddenly rethinking this meeting.
“It’s a delicate situation, one that normally I would never breach with a near stranger, but…
it’s only that you seemed to be quite… well acquainted with the island.
Though, maybe it was foolish—and unkind—to assume what sorts you might consort with. ”
Tychus laughs. “Oh, my young friend. On Cyprene, it’s a poor businessperson who doesn’t trade with both higher and lower elements. I can assure you, I do not discriminate. As long as my interests are served.”
It’s Nolan’s turn to consider. All an act, tidbits laid out to tempt Tychus closer and closer.
“I believe both our interests may be served, if you are so inclined. I’m in possession of some particular goods.
Ones that are difficult to peddle, save to parties who are trying to reach a…
different level of understanding in regards to the divine. ”
The delicate part. If Tychus doesn’t have the sort of connections we need, then we’ve shown our hand for nothing. A miscalculation we might have to deal with in an unpleasant manner.
But he smiles knowingly. “Parties such as the Salt priests?”
I can’t tell if the surprise that flashes on Nolan’s face is genuine or not.
“Oh,” Tychus continues, “I try to stay informed where I can. Which is to say, I hope I’ve shown I may be of use.”
“You have indeed.”
“Why not simply present your wares to the priests instead of trying to tempt them with resources of lesser interest?”
“Caution,” Nolan says quickly. “Discretion. The consequences of trading in these sorts of goods are clear on the mainland. Here…?” He shrugs. “I’d hoped to find a warmer welcome before I reached that level of… comfort.”
“Hmm.” Tychus takes a thoughtful sip. “Discretion is certainly not unwarranted. But I might be able to turn some of those cold attentions your way. First, though, I’d have to be sure you have what you allude you have.”
Nolan gestures to me. I take the box from my pocket and place it on the table. Tychus does his best to appear unimpressed, but there’s a tightening around his mouth, a glaze of greed in his eyes. He twists one of his braided rings nervously as I remove a vial of the blood tincture.
“It’s what you think it is, yes,” says Nolan.
Tychus seems to have forgotten how to blink. “Where did you get it?”
“I’ll have to keep the specifics to myself, you understand. But there’s more where this came from. Much more.”
Finally, our new friend tears his gaze away. “I’m afraid I’ll need more proof than this. The authenticity of something such as this must be beyond question.” He smiles wider. “You understand.”
“Of course.” Nolan takes the vial and unstoppers it. If it pains him to do so, he hides it well. “Lys?”
I draw one sickle and carefully dip its point into the thick crimson ichor.
“Stick out your tongue,” Nolan orders.
One drop. A tiny, almost minuscule dose of divinity—that’s what falls from the tip of my sickle onto Tychus’s tongue.
I hold steady, forcing back memories of the Cathedral, of being on my knees, and the warm, searing sensation of the Goddess’s blood flowing down my throat.
This is not like that. My divine communion was a windstorm. This is barely a fart.
But divinity kicks, no matter the amount. Almost immediately, Tychus sucks in a gasping breath, pupils dilating, cheeks flushing like a pair of overripe tomatoes.
“By the Goddess,” Tychus gasps.
“By way of the Goddess, you mean,” says Nolan.
Tychus leaps to his feet, spinning so fast he nearly topples before catching the back of his chair, which splinters in his grasp.
Pushing it away, he stumbles toward the sconces in the wall, blinking and grinning as if the flickering oil lamps are the most beautiful things in the world.
“Unbelievable. Unbelievable.” He raises his hand, waggles his rings so that they glint and glitter. “The light… the colors…”
“The rush of divinity.” Nolan smirks. “Strength and sensations like you’ve never experienced before.”
I stifle a snort. We are clearly past the sell here—Tychus might as well be a fish writhing on a hook.
“Magnificent.” Tychus stumbles back and collapses into the remains of his chair. “My heart… beating so fast…”
“It will wear off in a few hours.”
Tychus looks as if he isn’t sure that’s what he wants. “How much can you get?”
“Like I said, more. But for the right sort of buyers. In Cyprene, well…”
“I understand.” Tychus finishes his drink, which feels like his way of saying We can deal. “Even with my connections, it’s a delicate endeavor.”
“When?” demands Nolan.
For a moment, Tychus doesn’t reply, and I’m afraid we’ve lost him to the seductive pull of divinity. Then he blinks rapidly, gaze filling with clear, voracious desire. “I’ll need a few days. I expect you can enjoy the charms of Cyprene for that much longer?”
Nolan smiles, satisfaction limning his eyes as thickly as kohl. “I think we can manage that.”