Page 71 of The Lost Reliquary

“Of course it does! But what does it solve to havebothof us throwing a tantrum about it?”

I’m not even sure he heard me. “None of their plans are financed with faith. But when a fortune is dangled in front of their faces, they don’t seem to care in the least.”

“Maybe that’s not what they want.” It’s a bad idea, the one that’s been growing since last night, a little mushroom out of shit, but Nolan isn’t the only one disappointed by the day’s fruitless search. The thought sprouted as I picked through the Renderers’ book, another endeavor that came to nothing. We are both right. We can’t push too hard without risking our whole venture coming apart. But infinite patience isn’t an option either… especially for me. “Or what they need.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe,” I continue, bracing myself, “they’ll be more forthcoming if we can give them something useful. Something that weknowthey’d never turn down.”

Nolan’s eyes narrow. “And that is…?”

Slowly, I remove the lacquer box from within my jacket and set it on the table between us. Surprise flickers on Nolan’s face, but only briefly before it’s replaced by an iron coldness as I remove the top, revealing the jars and vials within. “Youtookthat?”

“Sure did. Thought it might come in handy.”

Something new flashes at my glib explanation. Something dark. One hand reaches for the box, then stops, as if he can’t bring himself to touch it. “You tookthat. Knowing what it was…whoit was.”

“Yes.” I shift in my chair, feeling the weight of the cookbook move with me;thatsecret I’ll be keeping to myself. “I saved it because it was what the heretics were willing to risk everything for. What’s in that box is worth more than any fortune you could allude to. If we want the heretics to pay attention to us, well then, there you go.” I let my proposal sink in. “Is it better that Prior Fedic died for nothing?”

Nolan stands suddenly, and for a moment, I think our truce has shattered. But instead of violence, he stalks to the other end of the room, not looking at me, or at what lies on the table. Fists balled, he takes a long breath, followed by another, and another.

My palms practically burn for a weapon; whatever version of Nolan this is, I don’t like it. The room suddenly feels as if I’m sharing it with some unfamiliar beast.

“If you’re praying on it, I bet I know what the Goddess would say.”

And here I am, poking it.

“They’d say,” I continue, as the muscles in his shoulders tighten further, “do what we need to in order to find the reliquary.”

There’s another taut stretch of silence. Then he turns back, features unreadable. “Thatshould have been left in Sethane to be purified. Toburn.”

I expected vitriol. Even yelling. This—this flat, fortified absence of emotion—is somehow more threatening. Still, it says something that he hasn’t lost his temper… yet. “But…?”

His mouth thins. “But it wasn’t. And as indescribably vile and unthinkable as it is, you may be right.”

I lean back, letting a satisfied smile rise. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That I’m right.”

It’s a gamble, prodding him like this, in sensitive spots, but I don’t know what’s worse: Nolan turning his anger on me—in whatever form that takes—or him sensing that there’s a part of him that genuinely scares me. One that I just summoned with the revelation of the Renderers’ wares.

“It might not be enough,” he continues, ignoring my teasing. “We’re still strangers. They’ll want this, but they won’t trust us. We need someone they will.”

A good point. But I’ve got a solution for that too. “Tychus.”

“Tychus?” Nolan is skeptical. “He seemed more ambitious than accomplished.”

“But he’s known here. And it’s clear he’s had less-than-scrupulous dealings from time to time. Also, we don’t know anyone else. So, unless you want to make friends with whatever random unsavory sorts we can find, Tychus is our man.”

I wait for an argument, but Nolan has none.

The White Gull is small but tasteful, tucked into a district of Cyprene that boasts a spectacular view of the bay below. There, we find Tychus taking his dinner on the spacious patio that makes up the guesthouse’s roof. The setting sun paints a long swath of warmth across the water below, speckled occasionally by birds drifting on the wind.

“And here I was”—Tychus offers a thin smile—“thinking our paths might not cross again.”

Nolan sits across from him as I stand a few paces back, attention trading between them and the stairs leading up from the guesthouse below. If there’s one thing this particular meeting requires, it’s privacy. But between the look Tychus threw the proprietor when he delivered us and the surrounding trellises thickly woven with flowering vines, we’ve got the perfect setup for some seedy dealings.