Page 72 of The Lost Reliquary

Tychus pours a translucent liquid for Nolan, who accepts the glass graciously and sips. He grimaces. “Mm. Brinier than I expected.”

“A Cyprene specialty.” Tychus downs his in one gulp. “They say the salt cleanses the lies from one’s lips. Though”—he tips his head conspiratorially—“I’ve never found it to be a hinderance.”

Nolan gives an amused chuckle.

“How is your visit so far?” Tychus turns away to gaze over the water. It’s a door deliberately opened; he’s shrewd enough to know Nolan isn’t here without good reason.

“Not as fruitful as I’d hoped.” A frustrated sigh. “I expected the people here to be wary of newcomers but…” He pauses, as if considering. “Well, I thought that the promise of enough profit might overcome that particular barrier.”

Tychus scoffs. “Cyprene is not wanting for riches; you must have gleaned that by now. Perhaps your business propositions don’t quite tantalize here in the same way they might on the mainland.”

“That’s not the problem,” Nolan says. “I know what I have to offer is desirable. But… only to the right parties. And finding those parties has been the challenge.”

Tychus sits a little straighter. “Oh? And who exactly would that be?”

Nolan does a brilliant job of hesitating. A story winds its way over his face, frustration shifting to a new wariness, as if he’s suddenly rethinking this meeting. “It’s a delicate situation, one that normallyI would never breach with a near stranger, but… it’s only that you seemed to be quite… well acquainted with the island. Though, maybe it was foolish—and unkind—to assume what sorts you might consort with.”

Tychus laughs. “Oh, my young friend. On Cyprene, it’s a poor businessperson whodoesn’ttrade with both higher and lower elements. I can assure you, I do not discriminate. As long as my interests are served.”

It’s Nolan’s turn to consider. All an act, tidbits laid out to tempt Tychus closer and closer. “I believe both our interests may be served, if you are so inclined. I’m in possession of some particular goods. Ones that are difficult to peddle, save to parties who are trying to reach a… different level of understanding in regards to the divine.”

The delicate part. If Tychus doesn’t have the sort of connections we need, then we’ve shown our hand for nothing. A miscalculation we might have to deal with in an unpleasant manner.

But he smiles knowingly. “Parties such as the Salt priests?”

I can’t tell if the surprise that flashes on Nolan’s face is genuine or not.

“Oh,” Tychus continues, “I try to stay informed where I can. Which is to say, I hope I’ve shown I may be of use.”

“You have indeed.”

“Why not simply present your wares to the priests instead of trying to tempt them with resources of lesser interest?”

“Caution,” Nolan says quickly. “Discretion. The consequences of trading in these sorts of goods are clear on the mainland. Here…?” He shrugs. “I’d hoped to find a warmer welcome before I reached that level of… comfort.”

“Hmm.” Tychus takes a thoughtful sip. “Discretion is certainly not unwarranted. But I might be able to turn some of those cold attentions your way. First, though, I’d have to be sure you have what you allude you have.”

Nolan gestures to me. I take the box from my pocket and place it on the table. Tychus does his best to appear unimpressed, but there’s a tightening around his mouth, a glaze of greed in his eyes. He twists one of his braided rings nervously as I remove a vial of the blood tincture.

“It’s what you think it is, yes,” says Nolan.

Tychus seems to have forgotten how to blink. “Where did you get it?”

“I’ll have to keep the specifics to myself, you understand. But there’s more where this came from. Much more.”

Finally, our new friend tears his gaze away. “I’m afraid I’ll need more proof than this. The authenticity of something such as this must be beyond question.” He smiles wider. “You understand.”

“Of course.” Nolan takes the vial and unstoppers it. If it pains him to do so, he hides it well. “Lys?”

I draw one sickle and carefully dip its point into the thick crimson ichor.

“Stick out your tongue,” Nolan orders.

One drop. A tiny, almost minuscule dose of divinity—that’s what falls from the tip of my sickle onto Tychus’s tongue. I hold steady, forcing back memories of the Cathedral, of being on my knees, and the warm, searing sensation of the Goddess’s blood flowing down my throat. This is not like that. My divine communion was a windstorm. This is barely a fart.

But divinity kicks, no matter the amount. Almost immediately, Tychus sucks in a gasping breath, pupils dilating, cheeks flushing like a pair of overripe tomatoes.

“By the Goddess,” Tychus gasps.