The Blacktongue Thief

41 The Quartered Sun

The next day, the four of us from the Suepka met in the Quartered Sun, a tavern known for Gallardian wine. Of course, this was Galva’s idea, and she had set herself up in a corner chair with a fresh burgundy shirt on her, making her look young and vital, even comely, against the peeling sage-green paint on the bricks behind her, as she dove hips-deep into a carafe of rubyish Gallard lammasgrape. She probably could have gotten the black wine she preferred at the Quarrelsome Spanth, but I believe it would have hurt her pride to go there.

Once the three of us had joined her and filled our cups, we weren’t long in knocking them together.

“To death,” Galva said in a toast.

“To fallen comrades,” said Malk.

“To that right cullion Gormalin,” said Norrigal about the poor old Pigdenish harpooner the goblins had eaten on their hellish ship.

“May his cup be always full,” Malk offered.

“But only with beer,” I said before I could stop myself, getting a look from the soldier and the sailor and a swallowed snort from Norrigal. But then Malk and Galva also smiled despite themselves.

“Jilnaedu,” Galva said, then raised her cup to me, drained it, and filled it again.

“I have brought you here to formally invite the three of you to continue with me on my path,” she said. “I will leave to cross Molrova, into Oustrim, where I will see to the safety of Queen Mireya, the infanta of Ispanthia. Oustrim has fallen to the giants and its king is dead, but the queen is believed to be alive and in hiding.”

This declaration wrenched me back to the steaming hold of the goblin ship, when, with Malk bleeding all over me and me thinking we’d be stew for the biters, Norrigal had told me such a story. What Galva sought to do was a thing almost unthinkable outside fables—to put a witch-queen on the throne of Ispanthia. Such a frank invitation meant we must have earned her trust, and an Ispanthian’s trust was priceless coin.

“But I go first to meet the army of my country,” she continued, “which is marching to aid Oustrim in its fight against the giants. One of Ispanthia camped with this army will join me. This is my instructor of sword, who taught me for three years, and whom I am very eager to see.”

“If the army is heading for Oustrim, why should we?” I asked.

“To conquer a kingdom, a thousand is not enough. To free a prisoner, ten is too many,” Galva said. “The army goes to fight the giants, to push them back to their mountains. We will find the infanta and set her on her way home. Our journey will be hard, for we will march with long steps and rest little. The sinking of the ship delayed us many days, and we must tarry here no longer. We leave in the morning, and we do not stay two nights in any place again. All of those who aid me in this endeavor shall have rich rewards and the thanks of the sovereign of Ispanthia.”

“You didn’t say Kalith,” I said, winking at her.

“Lower your voice,” Norrigal told me.

“An oversight,” Galva said, smiling a little, waving her hand in dismissal. “The crown of Ispanthia is generous, and the return of the infanta to her rightful place will serve the good of Ispanthia and all of Manreach.”

“If there’s money to be earned, I’m in,” Malk said. While we served on the ship, I hadn’t noticed Malk’s mercenary side—the work was so bloody and greasy there was no point in wearing fine things, but since he’d gotten his share of the goblin-ship money, he had availed himself of the best Edth had to offer.

His jerkin of leather sewn with bronze rings would turn a knife and most swords. He’d gotten himself a longsword as well, Istrean steel if I were not mistaken, head and shoulders better than the battered cutlass that served him on the Suepka. He looked a man to be reckoned with, and he’d even found a Galtish hammered-gold torque to put around his neck as if he were a prince’s son and not just a Platha Glurris soldier’s brat. His hair cut, his stubble shaved, Malk had doubtless turned the heads of half the daughters of Edth on his way to the Quartered Sun.

Another thing—while Norrigal and I played at moon-marriage, Malk and Galva had taken up again the close friendship they’d cut short over whether I was to be murdered or not. I wondered had they gone shopping together like two gossips gone to market, Galva showing off her fine burgundy shirt to her skainsmate, Malk saying, “Which torque do you think shows off my jawline to better advantage?”

I chuckled.

“What?” Galva said.

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just … admiring your shirt.”

“Why are you always laughing?” Galva said. “You laugh when you should be silent, you speak when you should listen. And this shirt was made by an Ispanthian tailor of great renown, it is not for mocking.”

“My god demands it of me. You still want me to help you find the infanta?”

She blinked twice, presumably blinking away the words she’d have rather said. “Yes.”

“Good! This border rendezvous, is it anywhere near Grevitsa?”

“Why do you speak of Grevitsa?”

“It’s a Molrovan city.”

“I know this. Why do you say it?”

“No reason. I hear they have good lace.”

“Lace?”

“In Grevitsa.”

“What are you wanting with lace?”

“I thought you might want a bit of lace. For your fine shirt.”

She reached across the table and fetched me a slap, but that just made me laugh harder.

“I deserved it,” I said, getting up, still laughing. “You just sit there. I’ll fetch your next carafe of wine for you. It’s on the Guild.”