The Sapphire Altar

Book 2: Vagrant Gods

by David Dalglish

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dragons & Mythical Creatures; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

In this epic fantasy from a bestselling author, a usurped prince must master the magic of shadows in order to reclaim his kingdom and his people.
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Cyrus wants out. Trained to be an assassin in order to oust the invading Empire from his kingdom, Cyrus is now worried the price of his vengeance is too high. His old master has been keeping too many secrets to be trusted. And the mask he wears to hide his true identity and become the legendary "Vagrant" has started whispering to him in the dark. But the fight isn't over and the Empire has sent its full force to bear upon Cyrus's floundering revolution. He'll have to decide once and for all whether to become the thing he fears or lose the country he loves.

Release date: January 10, 2023

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 544

Sample

Cyrus slumped against the wall with head bowed, his body covered with a tattered cloak and muck-stained clothes. He hid his face from the passing soldier using the folds of his hood. He never knew which face these imperials would see. It was strange, not trusting his own face. Thinking about it made him uncomfortable.

He thought about it a lot.

“Hurry up, would you?” someone shouted from the end of the alley.

Cyrus had staked this position out the night before. Nearby was a tavern, and supremely drunk soldiers tended to come out here to piss. This meant the alley reeked, but it also meant it was largely avoided. Now the hour was dark, the city quiet, and this soldier alone but for a distant companion who sounded much too eager to return to his drinking.

It had taken several hours of waiting for a proper victim to arrive, but the one thing Cyrus had in abundance was time. He sat there, thoroughly ignored by the passing soldier. The most acknowledgment he received was a slight adjustment of gait so the soldier didn’t step on him.

“Hate this backwater beer,” the man grumbled in the imperial tongue. “Spend more time pissing than drinking.”

Cyrus grinned beneath his hood. This soldier would accompany an invasion force to their island, and then, years of subjugation later, insult their beer? Cyrus’s hands fell to the swords hidden underneath his cloak. As if he needed more justification.

“Is your stomach not well?” he asked in imperial as he stood. His clothes made not a sound from the movement. It was something he’d noticed lately. His footfalls were silent, and it was from no effort on his own part. It was the same with his clothes, the strength of his swings, and the speed at which he moved. The people believed he was Thanet’s ultimate murderer, and after Thorda’s heinous sacrifice, Cyrus had become exactly that.

The soldier’s trousers were unbuckled and his cock in hand when he glanced over, confused why a homeless vagabond would know his native tongue. Cyrus stood there, swords still hidden. Calm. Patient. Waiting for the moment to arrive, for it always did arrive.

“Who are y—”

The Vagrant’s grin. It was always the grin, seen by those Cyrus deemed his victims. Cyrus could feel it on his face. It felt too wide. Too hard. The soldier’s eyes bulged, and he stumbled backward with his pants still low. Only then did Cyrus let his cloak slip and the moonlight glimmer off his swords. Did it glimmer off his crown, too? Cyrus did not know. What he was, and what his enemies saw, were not the same. Not yet.

Cyrus closed the distance between them in a dash. The soldier reached for his sword, but the weapon swayed wildly from his unbuckled belt. His fingers closed about the hilt just in time for him to die. Cyrus’s longsword rammed deep into the man’s belly, while his shorter, reverse-gripped blade sank directly into his throat, ending any attempt at a warning scream. Blood gushed across Cyrus’s gloved hands, warm and sticky. The soldier gargled and convulsed as he died, kept standing by the steel that killed him.

Cyrus’s efforts were akin to clearing a beach one grain of sand at a time, he knew that, but it still felt good to be doing something against the Everlorn Empire, however ultimately irrelevant. He watched the life leave the eyes of his foe. It had bothered him, for a time, witnessing the transition into death. It didn’t anymore.

“Good riddance,” he said, and yanked his weapons free. The body collapsed at Cyrus’s feet. After a quick search, he found a half-empty coin purse containing a mixture of Everlorn currency (which Thanese businesses were forced to accept) and several original Thanese silver crowns. Cyrus pocketed the purse and then stepped away. It was time to go before he drew more attention. Cyrus turned, but he managed only two steps before his legs locked tight.

Not yet.

A hard pain struck Cyrus in the gut. He winced and gritted his teeth. No, he would not cut a bloody crown. He’d decided this when the day began. The Vagrant persona, he would forsake it. He was Cyrus Lythan, the dead prince returned. That was all he needed to be. He had to stop playacting in both roles.

Another step. His limbs shook, and he feared he would drop his swords. His stomach twisted tighter, and he felt close to vomiting. A deep, dark voice whispered in his mind, so faint it might have been his imagination. Might have, if Thorda had not blessed him with the sacrifice of forty men and women willing to believe in a savior.

Take your due.

Vertigo came next. It felt like he was holding his breath. It felt like he was attempting to stop his heart. Every natural order of the world, denied out of sheer pride. His body could not endure. His mind, stubborn as it was, cracked beneath the discomfort. He turned to the body.

A single slash. That was all it took. One long, arcing cut across the man’s forehead to carve the Vagrant’s crown. Relief came the instant he finished. The sickness vanished. The Vagrant had taken his due.

“Hey, Alex, you done pissing yet? I want to go home.”

The friend near the entrance. Cyrus didn’t wait for him to come looking. He sprinted out of the alley and into the middle of the street, a savage beast hunting amid the starlight. His swords crossed over the man’s throat before he knew he was in danger. The body collapsed, and Cyrus knelt over it, a fire burning in his chest. A glance to his left, and he saw two women near the tavern entrance recoiling in horror.

They didn’t scream, though, nor did they call for aid. They were women of Thanet. They knew who defended Vallessau. One of them turned away, while the other met his gaze. Her face hardened. She swiped two of her fingers across her forehead.

Cyrus didn’t try to fight it this time. He cut his crown upon the dead man’s head, temple to temple, and then flicked his swords clean before sheathing them. He pulled his hood lower so that it covered much of his face. Only his mouth and jaw would be visible, and he put a finger to them.

“Shhhhh.”

He retreated, two soldiers a fine sacrifice made in the dead of night.

Behind him, the second woman rushed to the body, her fingers dipping into the blood so she might paint her forehead with a true crown, the Vagrant’s blessing for those who had begun to believe anew in a free Thanet.

One month ago, Cyrus had forsaken the Vagrant persona while storming out of Thorda Ahlai’s home. What followed were long days and nights stalking the city for vulnerable soldiers, eating meager meals from street vendors, and sleeping in rented rooms paid for with coin taken from his kills. It was a paltry effort against the imperial invasion, nothing like the progress made with Thorda’s team of elite behind him, but it was honest. It was straightforward. Most importantly, the victims were of his own choosing.

There would be no washing out the blood coating his gloves, so Cyrus discarded them prior to entering the Belhaven Tavern. He’d never considered himself much of a drinker, but lately he appreciated how it blurred the final nighttime hours before he slept.

Cyrus told himself he did this because kills were easier at night. It had nothing to do with how his heart raced and his blood pulsed come the arrival of the stars. That the people of Vallessau viewed the Vagrant as a creature of the night was irrelevant. A trick of the mind. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

So once his room was paid for (with significant extra to remove the tavern keeper’s scowl given the extremely late hour), Cyrus found himself a corner to sit in and drink whatever the keeper considered his tavern’s finest. It was the same beer the dead guard had disparaged, Cyrus realized after his first few gulps. Something about that returned a smile to his face. Heavens help him, he was giggling. He felt delusional.

Most of all, he felt afraid of that whispering voice demanding its due.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” said a familiar voice. Cyrus glanced up as his old friend Rayan settled into the chair opposite him. He carried a large leather bag, and it rattled with metal when he set it down. Cyrus suspected the paladin carried his weapons within, hidden to avoid the potential ire of soldiers.

“Even the homeless may find reasons to laugh,” Cyrus said, pretending all was well between them. The last time he’d seen Rayan had been the day of the hangings. The reveal of Thorda’s great betrayal. The question was, did Rayan know the truth of it?

“Homeless by choice, I will point out,” the paladin said, and smiled. He was as handsome and finely groomed as ever, wearing freshly laundered trousers and a white shirt marked with silver buttons. Instructors at the Heaven’s Wing, the former academy for teaching paladins of Lycaena, had demanded not a hair on their heads be out of place, for these champions were the embodiment of their goddess. Even with Lycaena dead and the academy burned to the ground, Rayan continued those traditions, if only out of stubborn habit.

“That hardly makes me unique,” Cyrus said. “Keeping a home is hard. As for me, the men I kill tend to carry enough to buy a room and a decent meal. I can’t complain.”

The tavern keeper appeared with a second wood cup filled with beer. Rayan must have ordered it when he arrived. For Cyrus to not notice was unacceptable. He had to keep his wits about him, even when wallowing in alcohol. His grin slipped. Why was the paladin here? And why now?

“So how are things back… you know, with everyone?” he asked. He said it with a shrug, pretending he didn’t actually care and was only making idle chat. It was a lie, of course. What he most wanted to know was whether Thorda had revealed the truth, or if he had been a coward and kept it to himself. Personally, Cyrus gave it a coin-flip chance.

“Everyone misses you,” Rayan said. He sipped at the beer. “You could come back, you know. Whatever happened between you and Thorda, we can work through it. His plan to stop the hangings, it might have failed, but it failed due to us underestimating the empire’s cruelty. It is a mistake we will not make again.”

Cyrus drained half his cup to hide his frustration. That answered that. Thorda, the brilliant tactician and financier of countless rebellions, his teacher and master of the blade—a damn coward.

“Why are you here?” Cyrus asked. He slammed down the cup. “Why really? It’s been a long, hard month and no one came for me before. Have things truly gone so sour?”

Rayan glanced around to ensure no other ears were listening.

“Sour does not come close to describing it, Cyrus. With Heir-Incarnate Galvanis’s arrival, things have turned dire. He brought with him a retinue of paragons, as well as a Humbled god by the name of Rihim. Their combined might makes even the smallest of operations dangerous. Worse, they somehow have discovered a means to root out our safe houses. Trust in Thorda and his resistance is plummeting, at least here in Vallessau. We need you, I will not lie about that, but that is not why I am here. This is no plan of Thorda’s. I come to ask you for a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Yes, a favor.” Rayan reached across the table to playfully jab him in the shoulder. The touch left a warmth on his shoulder Cyrus tried hard to ignore. If he focused on it, he might realize just how badly he missed his friends. “Surely after all I’ve done for the Lythan family, you owe me at least one, wouldn’t you agree?”

Another little jab to Cyrus’s heart, and one he did a poor job hiding. Rayan did not know the truth of his Orani heritage. A favor? After what the Lythan family had done to the Orani bloodline, Cyrus owed him a throne.

“And what is this favor?” he asked. “It better not be coming back with you to Thorda. That’s off the table, I can tell you, and I’d be disappointed in you for asking.”

Instead of answering, the paladin pulled a note out from his breast pocket and slid it across the table. It was the sturdy, blocky, and precut pages used for sending messages via the Thanese courier-works, folded once across the middle. Cyrus opened it and read.

I hope all is well, and your days safe. I believe I have located where these cultists built themselves an enclave. If I am correct, it is but a few days from Chora, in the shadow of the Cliffwoods. I must admit, I feel trepidation, but also relief. I will have my answer. No more rumors. This nonsense can be put to rest by the evidence afforded to my own eyes. When I learn more, I will share. Much love to you, Uncle.

Keles

“Rumors?” Cyrus arched an eyebrow. “What rumors?”

“Rumors of the most outrageous sort,” Rayan said. He crossed his arms, and he looked incredibly uncomfortable. “Ones claiming that in the far reaches of Ierida, our beloved Lycaena has returned to us.”

Cyrus glanced at the note. The island was divided into four realms for governance, with Ierida being the northernmost, split by the Northspine Mountains and half-filled by the Broadleaf Forest. Beyond them were miles and miles of fields until the Cliffwoods, which marked the farthest reaches of the island. Chora must be one of the small farming villages tending those fields.

“Is that possible?” he asked.

“Thorda insists slain gods can indeed come back to earthly form, but it is a long and difficult process. They are beings of faith, and when a populace witnesses one killed, it causes irrevocable damage. More often than not it takes generations, and years of the god or goddess slowly healing and becoming whole while their worshipers maintain their faith. That’s what he says, anyway.”

“And what do you think?”

The paladin’s face darkened.

“I think someone is taking advantage of our people’s hurt for their own gain, and that someone might be willing to go to great lengths to keep the ruse going. That letter was Keles’s last. I fear what happened to her, Cyrus, and I would like you to accompany me in finding her.”

The thought of seeing Keles again, of her being in danger, flooded Cyrus with a mixture of emotions he had no hope of deciphering. Rayan was waiting for an answer, and so Cyrus used questions to stall.

“Why not bring Stasia? Or Mari? In her Lioness form she might even be able to smell out Keles like a bloodhound.”

Rayan hesitated. He did not want to say what he was about to say, that much was clear.

“Thorda did not believe the resistance could afford the absence of either of his daughters.”

“Not even for someone so dear to you as Keles,” Cyrus said, finishing the unspoken thought. “That’s Thorda, through and through. We are just tools to be used by someone like him.”

“Is that why you left?”

Cyrus wanted to tell him how Thorda manipulated all of them to his own ends. He wanted to confess every single aspect of it, vomit out the words until the story was told. How Thorda had built a persona for Cyrus to embody, each and every detail chosen in advance. How he had Cyrus encourage the otherworldly aspects of it, which in turn fueled the rumors Thorda spent two years spreading during Cyrus’s training. And how, as the final culmination of that effort, Thorda had engineered the capture and execution of forty souls faithful to the Vagrant.

Forty souls, convinced the Vagrant was the dead prince returned to life. Believing in him. Faithful. Loyal. Sacrificed, like the Seeds used to turn mere human men into the mighty paragons of the Everlorn Empire. And in return, Cyrus’s strength had grown tenfold. His reflexes heightened. His gifted ring of Anyx allowing him to traverse shadow to shadow almost on a whim. Everything Thorda had promised, and nothing Cyrus had expected.

But to tell Rayan of Thorda’s betrayal was to tell him the reason for that betrayal, and exactly what Cyrus was becoming. What the Vagrant was becoming. And he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The words would not come to his lips.

“Thorda knows why I left,” Cyrus said instead. “I see his cowardice has not yet abated.”

“Cowardice is not something I associate with a man so ruthless,” Rayan said. “But whatever happened between you two, I shall not pry further, even if all of us, including Thorda, miss you dearly.”

Rayan reached into the bag he carried. Cyrus recoiled at what emerged from within. It was the crowned skull mask. The last he’d seen it, he had returned it to Thorda, split in half from the battle against Magus of Eldrid. The mask had been repaired, with such expertise not a crack marked its painted-white front. Cyrus stared at the wide, toothy grin as his insides trembled.

That mask. That crown. He feared it more than anything, and yet he felt such an intense desire to hold it, to wear it, to become it, that he found his hand reaching without a thought. The moment it touched his skin, the spell broke. Just a bit of carved and painted wood, that was all. The crown was plain silver. Not jagged. Not decorated. Just a round band to hold the mask to his face.

“Thorda thought you might need this,” Rayan explained. “The road north will be heavily patrolled, and there is a chance we must defend ourselves.”

Cyrus knew it was more than that. This was an attempt to bring him back into the fold. It was a reminder of what Thorda had created, as if Cyrus could ever forget. Perhaps it was also an apology. With Thorda, one could never tell. He was stone and ice, more familiar with a frown than a smile.

“You truly think Keles is in danger?” he asked.

“This entire island is full of desperate people. If Keles reveals their potential salvation for a lie, then yes, I fear the harm that may follow. The deceived are as likely to harm the truth bringer as they are to admit fault.”

Cyrus stuffed the mask into a pocket of his trousers, glad to have it out of sight and terrified by the excitement it gave him nestled so close to his body. Mild electricity jolted through him as if from a second heart.

“Then it seems we are going north.”

He grinned. Rayan recoiled in his seat, and Cyrus wondered just whose grin the paladin saw.

Sinshei hated these meetings at the council table. She hated the subservience she needed to display. And with the exception of her paragon, Soma, she hated every single person inside that room.

“Every day,” her brother, the Heir-Incarnate Galvanis vin Lucavi, said with exaggerated frustration. “Every single day, I receive word of another soldier, priest, or magistrate cut down with their forehead carved open with a bloody crown.”

His frown deepened, and when he crossed his arms, the chair beneath him groaned in protest. Magus had sat in that same chair during prior discussions on how to best subjugate Thanet. Comparing the two reaffirmed just how huge her brother was. The Uplifted Church preached that the Heir-Incarnate’s greater size and strength, dwarfing even that of paragons, was proof of his divine right to be the next physical embodiment of the God-Incarnate. Sinshei suspected it was more complicated than that. In her memories as a little girl, she didn’t remember Galvanis as quite so big, nor his face so rigid and white, as if he were carved out of marble.

“We have offered bounties, but without a name or a face we have no way to verify what few claims we receive,” Sinshei said. “And with the Vagrant’s apparent distaste for open combat, he picks at us like a mosquito.”

She was trying to downplay the Vagrant’s threat, and for one particular reason: Galvanis blamed her for the bastard’s mere existence. It didn’t matter that Imperator Magus and Regent Goldleaf deserved equal blame. It didn’t even matter that the two were dead. Had they lived, Galvanis would have blamed her all the same. Sinshei was forever expected to accomplish miracles, and forever blamed for failing.

“Then coordinate your search efforts throughout the city,” Galvanis said. “If the Vagrant were truly a mosquito, then we could end him with hardly any effort, yet that is clearly not the case. Even Rihim has struggled to engage the bastard in a fight.”

Rihim was the Humbled former god that Galvanis brought with him from Gadir, a god of the hunt from the conquered nation of Antiev. He was Galvanis’s trained pet, and so Rihim was given patience and understanding, two things so rarely extended Sinshei’s way.

“Such citywide coordination proves difficult without a proper regent,” she said. Galvanis had declared himself Imperator, but unlike Magus, he had not also taken the title of regent. Currently Magus’s former Signifer, Weiss, held the role of regent-temp. It was meant as a placeholder, and even Weiss knew that. He sat quietly at the table, a little pad of yellow paper before him and a charcoal pencil in hand to scratch notes. Sinshei vastly preferred him over Gordian, and when things settled, she would try to convince Galvanis to make the position permanent.

“And a proper regent will be appointed in due time, but having had two perish within months at the hands of the Vagrant, I find myself reluctant to name a third.” Galvanis made a disgusted expression, one almost comical on his pristine face and perfectly square jaw. “Truly, this man’s methods make even the Skull-Amid-the-Trees seem civilized. What I would give to face him in open combat so we might end this nonsense without needless deaths.”

“‘The Empire’s greatest threats are rarely found upon the battlefield,’” Sinshei quoted from the Pames Memoirs.

“You would speak Anointed Enfar to me?” Galvanis asked. “Then quote it correctly. ‘The Empire’s greatest threats are rarely found upon the battlefield, but instead within the hearts of man.’ Those hearts are yours to win over, Anointed One. Your church is not rising to its responsibilities.”

Sinshei felt a momentary echo of time hearing such a complaint. Magus had grumbled the same. With him, she had argued her priests could not adequately perform their duties when the Vagrant and his fellow insurgents were murdering them in their homes. To her brother, she would offer no such defense. Excuses meant nothing to him.

“We do the best we can,” she said, relying on the one thing her brother would accept: the inherent inferiority of the local populace. “These islanders are wicked and stubborn in their hearts. It is no wonder the message of the God-Incarnate struggles to take root. We are scattering seeds across a hard, dry land.”

Galvanis leaned back in his chair, and he tapped his fingers together.

“I have read everything the Deep Library of Eldrid contained of Thanet’s history. They do seem a stubborn lot. That so many were displaced followers of Endarius fleeing Mirli has no doubt seeded cowardice within them as well. I sympathize with your struggles, dear sister, I truly do, but I sympathize more with our dead. This must be stopped.”

“I can handle him, if given proper time and tools. Skilled and dangerous as he is, the Vagrant is but one man cloaked in rumors and lies. Anyone he speaks with becomes a weakness. Every tale-teller might know a modicum of truth to be exploited. These killings he performs now are a pittance compared to the grand overtures he first attempted when building his name. I’d wager he’s weak, or in hiding. Time, my brother, all I need is time.”

“Time is the one resource we grow thin on,” Galvanis said. “But enough on this. As you say, the Vagrant is one man. It is a goddess that worries me now. Do you have the totality of rumors I requested?”

She did, compiled by one of her magistrates. She slid him the single curled scroll across the table.

“I first thought the rumors would originate from within Vallessau,” she said as her brother’s blue eyes skimmed the writing. “But unlike the Vagrant rumors, tracking the source was surprisingly easy. They’re travelers from the northern realm of Ierida, all of them.”

“And do you believe them?” Galvanis asked, still reading.

“The people do, and many supposed witnesses held firm their belief despite interrogation. At the least, it is worth considering.”

Her brother finally finished reading the list. Her stomach tightened. The look on his face, it was strikingly unpleasant.

“The goddess Lycaena, returned,” he said. “How could you fail so utterly, dear sister?”

Weiss’s scratching of his pencil halted momentarily, then resumed in earnest.

Sinshei kept her face calm and passive, betraying nothing of her frustrations bubbling beneath the placid surface. Of course her brother would blame her for this. A few days after Magus’s death, the most outlandish of rumors had started spreading throughout Vallessau. They claimed that the Butterfly goddess, Lycaena, had returned from death to answer the prayers of her faithful. As to where she was, none would specify beyond vague references to Ierida.

“This development has caught all of us off guard,” she said. “Official reports we receive from Ierida insist that matters go smoothly.”

Galvanis folded his hands together and shook his head.

“Only if you accept the reports at face value, Anointed. Tucked along the bottom they report their missing and their dead, and that number has steadily grown at unparalleled rates over the past month.”

“It is not uncommon for soldiers to desert their duty, or the occasional local to attack a drunk or vulnerable man from Gadir…”

Excuses. She was making excuses. God-Incarnate help her, she tried so hard to avoid them. Her brother’s eyes narrowed. His muscles tightened, and his chiseled jaw hardened into a perfect square.

“This conquest was given six years to prepare Thanet. The god Endarius died on the first day of our arrival. Two years later, Lycaena was publicly executed! Five years in total, three without their gods, and yet you failed to convert their hearts and minds to the true faith. Call this land dry and hard all you wish, but sometimes the blame of an ill crop must fall upon the farmer. For the people to maintain their faith in their slain goddess so strongly that she might return? Unacceptable.”

Her oldest brother was not Magus. He did not smash the table with his fists. He did not draw a weapon or physically act out his frustration beyond the raising of his voice. But it was enough. The stone trembled beneath Sinshei’s feet. One of the cracks in the table deepened. Sinshei cast her gaze low, refusing to meet his eye. Only silence and respect would suffice here. All else would worsen his ire.

“Faith here in Thanet is fickle and thin,” said Galvanis, at last breaking the silence. When he spoke, the scratching of Weiss’s pencil resumed. “What prayers they offer my father are meager. We cannot risk a potential return of a goddess. We cannot risk the rumors of a potential return, not with how fragile a state I find this island in.”

“Forgive me,” Sinshei said, and she bowed her head in respect. “I will organize a contingent of soldiers, paragons, and priests to scour northern Ierida in search of the source of these rumors.”

“No. Such a matter is far too important, and the excessive failures on this island deny me trust in others to achieve a proper conclusion. I will lead the contingent north. If one of Thanet’s heathen gods has returned, her divinity will shine like a beacon to my eyes. She, and all her followers, will die to my blade.”

“What of the Vagrant?” Sinshei dared ask. “You would leave Vallessau while belief here in the Vagrant festers?”

Galvanis stood and rested his hands on the table. Already damaged from when Soma struck it with his spear, it cracked further from the Heir-Incarnate’s weight. His blue eyes pierced into Sinshei’s as he smiled a statue’s smile.

“You reveal your true fear of this ‘one man cloaked in rumors and lies,’” he said. “But worry not, little sister. I shall leave Rihim here to continue his hunt. Where you fail, I trust the Humbled to succeed.”

Sinshei bowed her head to hide her shiver.

“I trust your wisdom above all else. Safe travels, dear brother.”

Sinshei remained seated until Galvanis exited the room, for doing otherwise would appear disrespectful. Signifer Weiss scribbled a few more lines during the wait.

“What could you possibly still be writing?” she asked him. Frustration and hurt harshened her tongue.

The scarred man glanced up, and after a moment’s hesitation, he shrugged.

“See for yourself.”

He slid the pad to her. The paper was rough and yellow, and it crinkled at her touch.

No potatoes here. Possible replacements? They have radishes. Cauliflower, perhaps? With so much cheese, don’t need exact. Must check spices—I think they grow a chili similar to our yellow peppers.

She lowered the pad and stared at the man as if seeing him for the very first time.

“Is this… are you writing out a recipe?”

Signifer Weiss faintly grinned.

“I find myself on an island I do not know, in a position I did not strive for, under the direct order of the Heir-Incarnate. The last thing I desire is to be noticed. Over my years I have learned a quiet man taking notes is left to his own devices by important men, especially if those important men assume the notes are about themselves.”

Sinshei arched an eyebrow.

“Did you employ this strategy in our meetings with Magus, too?”

“Not as often. Magus would listen to my advice. I do not anticipate the same from you or Galvanis.”

That might be changing soon, Sinshei decided. Weiss was a quiet man, but clever, and he’d risen to his rank for good reason. She slid the notes back to him.

“Try speaking more often,” she said. “You may find yourself surprised.”

He r