“Slut! Dyke! He’s dead! You killed him!”

“How would I have done that?” asked Tiphaine, testing the straps that bound the slight figure to the bed. Thick double-ply cowhide. John Hordle would have trouble breaking them, with no more leverage than that; Tiphaine herself would have been completely helpless.

“You taught that Princess to hate him!”

“Nobody ever taught Mathilda good judgment, she was born with it. I always thought her friendship with Odard was stupid, but I certainly never talked with her about it. Who actually killed Odard? Or didn’t you see?”

“A man. A Saracen.” Mary turned her face away. “He had a club and . . . he was so big and . . . my son killed him but he hit him going down . . . Odard never had a chance.”

Tears fell out of the blue eyes and ran down the faded checks and ran into her ears. She shook her head, trying to dislodge them. Tiphaine didn’t step closer.

“A club! Not even a duel with a sword! Or a joust! Just a stupid street melee with pirates in Kalksthorpe. The ravens, the ravens are laughing on the back of the chair! The old man is laughing!”

Tiphaine tensed. The light wasn’t all that good, but she was pretty sure the eyes were getting darker. As if something bubbled up from within. Like road tar, BD had said. And it stinks even worse, if you know how to smell it.

“Mathilda kissed him good-bye and said she loved him like a brother. Odard smiled at her and said he was content.”

Mary’s voice was rising. “Content!” she shrieked. “She was supposed to marry him! And that awful priest from Mount Angel gave him last confession and absolution! He was sealed to the Ascended Masters! I promised them he would be theirs if he wed Mathilda! He did not belong to the Sacrificed God!”

The eyes . . .

Tiphaine backed away from the bed, and heard the thick doubled-ply leather straps creaking. She couldn’t have broken those, not from that position. Mary Liu hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a needle or a wineglass for most of her life, but they were creaking, standing harder than iron against the steel buckles.

Mathilda’s alive, then, and the fellowship intact enough. They must have won that fight, wherever the hell Kalksthorpe is . . . never heard of it . . . Sandra would know. She’ll be so relieved. They could tend to Odard rather than leave him fallen on the field. And it sounds like the little bastard died well. I never trusted him . . .

“Do you know where this happened?” she asked; the Lady Regent would want to know.

“Kalksthorpe, if that means anything to you!” The voice coming out of Lady Mary’s throat was thicker and darker, deeper. “On the ocean, the ocean, so cold and gray . . . ships with the heads of dragons . . .”

The Atlantic. They got that far! Ships with the heads of dragons? What the fuck?