Page 65 of The Lost Reliquary
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 thesame 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 tochoke.” I have to admit, though, the stew is good—far better than anything we had on theSquid’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. Toadmitit. “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’mthe 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 bywhoooom?”
