Dragon Coast (14 page)

“No, that's not why I'm asking. Find out about this cook, will you? And everyone else who has contact with Ethelinda.”

Moth frowned. “What's this about?”

Daniel told him of the attempt on Ethelinda's life. Moth was interested but didn't seem concerned. Ethelinda's welfare wasn't part of the job.

Daniel opened another book and began turning pages. It was a catalog of some kind, with ink and watercolor drawings of rings and pendants and bracelets. The notations were in a Latinate cypher, a script often used by seventeenth-century osteomancers that Daniel struggled to remember from his father's tutelage. He'd pulled sixteen other books just like this one down from the shelves, and the shelves still contained at least another sixty.

“You're going to ruin your eyes, you keep reading in this dim light.” Moth said. “I can have your electricians install something brighter. I've got them working in the wine cellars, but I can pull them off that. You should see that place, by the way. Total fire hazard. Really, the whole house needs rewiring. And we've got termite damage under the rugs in the formal dining room. Talk about headaches.”

“You are doing a very good job running the house, Moth. The toilets even flush on time. You do realize we're not going to spend one damn second here longer than necessary? As soon as I find the
axis mundi
bone, we're gone.” That came out with more heat than Daniel had intended.

Moth didn't move, but he seemed to grow, his muscled body looming and building in menace. Daniel figured he managed it by flexing some muscle Daniel didn't even possess.

“Are you pissed at me?” Moth's voice was mild and frightening.

“No. No, I'm not,” Daniel said with a sigh. “Sorry. I'm pissed at Paul. I'm pissed at him for being the kind of guy who gets himself entwined in byzantine power plays. I'm pissed that I can't tell the difference between his friends and lovers and enemies. I'm pissed he built a dragon that took Sam from me. I'm pissed he abandoned his four-year-old daughter.”

“So, basically, you're really pissed at yourself.”

“Yeah.”

Moth relaxed, a storm cloud passing.

“Look, you didn't do to Ethelinda what the Hierarch did to you. It's not the same thing at all. Paul tried to kill you first. It was either you or him. You chose you. I'm glad you did. Stop blaming yourself.”

“Even if the Hierarch had killed my dad in self-defense, I don't think I'd be shrugging and going, ‘Oh, well, can't fault the guy for that, you do what you gotta do.' I think I'd still hate him enough to pull his heart out of his chest and eat it.”

“Sorry, buddy. Killing sucks. Dying sucks. I know. I've died several times myself.”

“The difference is, you always come back. I can't bring Paul back.”

“We're not here for Paul. Or Ethelinda. We're here to bring Sam back. We can still do that.”

Daniel turned more pages, looking at more jewelry and more crabby little script. Maybe he should send Moth to the kitchen for a plate of cookies. One cookie per page might be enough motivation to keep him going through the day.

He turned the page to an ink and watercolor drawing of a scepter consisting of a rod topped by a blue orb, banded in jewel-encrusted gold, and above that, a silver dagger. At the base of the silver dagger, in a bezeled setting, was a small, irregularly shaped black stone.

Daniel squinted at the script, concentrating so much to translate it that he didn't notice at first that the hand it was written in was as familiar as his own.

“This is Paul's writing,” he said.

Moth came over to look. “The ink looks pretty fresh. Scribbling in old books, very naughty.”

Daniel hadn't found Paul's writing in any of the other volumes. Something about this particular page of this particular book must have been important to him.

“Scepter of Bein,” he read aloud. “Crafted by Rurik of St. Petersburg. Gold and platinum, hatted by … no, wait, not hatted …
crowned
by a sapphire orb … set with rubies and diamonds, and a lifted stick … no, that's wrong … a raised blade from the armory of Chagha'an the Cleaver…” Daniel smiled, reading the rest of the description. “And inset with a piece of the
axis mundi
.”

“That's it, right?” Moth said. “That's the bone.”

“It's got to be,” Daniel agreed.

“Aces. So it's here somewhere. We just gotta start ripping walls out.” Moth rubbed his hands together, anxious for some simple, physical labor.

“Oh. Ugh,” Daniel said.

“No, no ‘ugh.' I don't like ‘ugh.' Why ‘ugh?'”

“I don't think it's in the house, Moth. Our intel must be a little off.”

He showed Moth the book's title:
Crown Jewels of the Hierarch.

“Maybe she gave him the bone as a gift?”

“A basket of muffins is a gift. An engraved watch. Okay, maybe even a piece of jewelry. But you don't give away crown jewels.”

“Ugh,” Moth said.

A knock at the door, and Daniel snapped the book shut.

Moth opened it to find Gorov, wringing his hands. The deposed steward tried to peer around Moth to see into the room, but Moth leaned to block his view.

“His lordship has a visitor,” Gorov announced, with high, querulous pomp. He must be feeling a little important with a message for his boss's boss.

“His lordship is busy and doesn't feel well.”

“Oh, dear, I'm distressed to hear that. Perhaps his lordship might like a cup of tea?” Gorov managed to sneak a look under Moth's arm and made brief eye contact with Daniel.

“Are you trying to poison him?”

“Why would I … no, of course not,” Gorov said.

“Because someone is, and the only reason I'm not using the rotisserie to question the kitchen staff is because his lordship is kind and merciful.”

“You
should
use the rotisserie,” Gorov said, taking umbrage. “This sort of thing never happened when I was in charge.”

“Are you questioning my leadership?”

“Yes,” Gorov snapped. “Yes, that is absolutely what I am doing. Prior to taking care of his lordship, I ran this household for Lady Freedmont, and, before her, Baron Hearst. I have served at San Simeon for half a century, and in that time, no one—not head of household, nor family, nor a guest—has ever tasted so much as an undercooked piece of meat. The kitchens of San Simeon are the pride of the realm. Poison! This shame undoes decades of reputation—”

“Who's the visitor?” Daniel called from the table.

“His lord Professor Nathaniel Cormorant,” said Gorov with stiff dignity.

Another rival for the office of High Grand Osteomancer.

Daniel wasn't up to facing such an encounter on an empty stomach.

“Put out a breakfast spread,” he instructed. “I trust you'll see it meets San Simeon's customary standards.”

Gorov dared a “hmmph” before retreating to do as his master commanded.

*   *   *

“You smell odd, boy.”

Cormorant buried his nose, roughly the size of an eggplant, in Daniel's hair and held him in a captive embrace.

“I've been some odd places recently,” Daniel said, his voice muffled in Cormorant's chest.

Cormorant exploded with guffawing laughter, which distracted him long enough for Daniel to push off and away and taste the sweet air of freedom.

A man of Falstaffian proportions, with ruddy cheeks and a white skunk stripe running down the center of a wilderness of brown hair, Cormorant wore a monk's robe of luxuriant purple wool.

He cocked his head to one side and fixed Daniel with an analytical frown. “You look wan, my lad. Have your cooks not supplied you with my revivifying soup? You, man!” he thundered at a startled Gorov. “Look at the state your lord is in. He's the color of a mushroom. Well, I can take care of that. All I need is seven pots and a stove.” He began rolling up his sleeves and was ready to march off to the kitchen.

“No, no, that's not necessary my … I'm fine, I'm fine. Please, join me in breakfast.” Daniel wasn't sure if Paul addressed Cormorant as “Lord” or “Professor” or “Lord Professor” or Nathaniel or Nate or Old Bean. “Oh, I should warn you, my dinner and wine were poisoned last night.”

Gorov squirmed, and Cormorant launched a cannon salvo of laughter. “You've always had such a way with people.”

He landed on a chair and took to sniffing the spread of scones and clotted cream and jams and juice and coffee, sucking in so much air through cavernous nostrils that Daniel was shocked his ears didn't pop.

Apparently, Cormorant considered the food safe. First one scone went into his mouth, and then another, washed down with a whole glass of orange juice. “Delicious,” he declared, struggling to get all the syllables out while simultaneously destroying a third scone.

Daniel assembled a plate of pastry and fruit and, with less flamboyance than Cormorant, submitted his breakfast to his own olfactory inspection before tucking in.

After a few minutes of tasty chewing and sipping, Cormorant asked if they could speak in private. Moth glowered at the request.

“I like your new man,” Cormorant said. “He's delightfully large. You can trust me, large, new man. I would never harm a hair on my favorite student's head. What a waste of my tutelage that would be, eh?”

Moth did not trust Cormorant. Nor did Daniel. But the more relevant question was if Paul did.

Daniel ordered Gorov and Moth and the serving footmen to clear the room.

Alone with Cormorant, he again found himself having to explain his year's absence, his injuries, and his long seclusion and recovery. Cormorant took it in as if Daniel were spinning a riveting adventure, responding with worried flinches and gasps and culminating in applause when Daniel got to his return to the shores of San Simeon.

“Splendid, my boy, just splendid. That was a proper odyssey you had. A rite of passage. An ordeal. When I was coming up, you weren't a true osteomancer without an ordeal. I wasn't even half your age when they sent me up Mount Rainier after the mountain dragon's tooth. But I've bored you with that story enough times.”

“No, no, I can't hear it enough.”

Cormorant gave Daniel a rueful smile, but Daniel meant it sincerely. The more he knew about Cormorant and how osteomancy was practiced in the North, the better his chances of pulling off a successful scam.

But Cormorant waved him off. “I didn't come here to regale you with tales of glories long past. You're back. And I am relieved and delighted. But it does raise issues.”

“Yes, there's the matter of who's going to be the realm's next High Grand Osteomancer.”

Cormorant smeared a great blob of jam on another scone. “Our Hierarch hates an empty office. She's been eyeing me for it.”

Would Paul be happy about this? Threatened? Angry? Daniel decided to test the waters. “You should consider it. You'd make a fine High Grand Osteomancer.”

Cormorant reacted as if he'd smelled something foul. “What offense have I ever given you that you would wish such a drab future for me? I'm a scholar.”

“But you think I'd be happy in the seat?”

“Happy? No, you'll be miserable. But when have I ever successfully talked you out of misery? What I know is the realm would be a kinder place with you in that office rather than Cynara or Allaster Doring. I'm a man of libraries and museums. With one of the siblings in office, he or she will likely take away my access to them, just to spite me. You, my lad, will be quite content to let an old man read into the night. But you must tell me now, with no prevarication: Are you strong enough?”

“My body is strong. My osteomancy is strong. I have some memory lapses, but being at home among my things is helping with that.”

“That's welcome news. But that's not the kind of strength I'm talking about. You need strength of desire. And strength of stomach. Have you thought what to do about the Dorings?”

“I've had conversations with both of them,” Daniel said, trying not to commit to anything.

Cormorant harrumphed. “No doubt Allaster tried to appeal to your old friendship.”

Daniel allowed that he did.

“I hope you weren't fooled. He sincerely loves you, and he sincerely would love to return to the old days. Who wouldn't? Two young princes, shoulder to shoulder, trying to outmatch each other with fire? Those jousts were the highlight of many a great gathering. Those were fine, blazing days. But the one thing greater than his love for you is his hate for you. He still fights that battle in his heart, but the war was lost a long time ago.”

Daniel decided to take a risk. “Is there anything I can do to change the outcome?”

“Can you bring back his father?”

Oh, god, thought Daniel. What had Paul done to the Dorings' father? What kind of man had Paul been?

“No, I can't,” Daniel said, because he assumed that was the truth.

“Then don't stir those coals. You were exonerated by the Hierarch. Nothing else matters. Except that Allaster is your enemy, and he won't settle for being a mere spectator to your elevation.”

Daniel rubbed his temples, betraying a sign of stress. But if Paul wouldn't be stressed about facing major opposition just after returning home from an ordeal, then he was even stranger than Daniel thought.

“And what about Cynara?”

Cormorant tsked. “You've created your own problem there, my boy. Toying with her, promising to support her for an office you crave … bad idea. She forgave you for her father, but she'll be the death of you if … when … you betray her. And giving her a daughter was a gamble you lost. I warned you it wouldn't make her beholden to you, but rather the other way around.”

So that's what Ethelinda was to Paul? A tactic. A game chip. An emotional bribe. In the South, osteomancers ate children. Things weren't so different in the North. Just more subtle.