‘It is a question I am asking of any dragon whose keeper seems to be undergoing obvious changes. Although Relpda has announced her intention, I would not have been surprised if others had quietly chosen such a path.’

‘And have they?’ She was suddenly curious.

‘Only Relpda has offered a blood change to her keeper.’

She considered his words for a time, then said, as if merely confirming a thought rather than asking a question, ‘Of course, there are other paths to creating an Elderling.’

‘Yes. They are more time-consuming and in most cases, less radical. They are no less dangerous if one is careless with the human.’

‘She was careless, not I. When she removed the rasp snake from me, some of my blood spattered on her face. Perhaps in her mouth or eyes.’

Mercor was silent for a time. ‘She changes then, a blood change. If you do not guide it, it could be very dangerous for her.’

She turned away from him again. ‘It seems strange to me that a dragon should care about what is dangerous for a human.’

‘It is strange,’ he admitted. ‘Yet it is as I told you all, and as Relpda’s new abilities show. One cannot change a human without being changed by her. Or him.’

He waited for a time, but when she neither looked at her nor made any response, he moved quietly away.

Simple pleasures. Simple human pleasures. Hot food and drink. Warm water to wash in. Soothing oil for his abused skin. Clean clothing. He hadn’t even had to talk much. Carson had handled all the questions and told their story in a much abbreviated yet embellished form to an appreciative audience while Sedric had focused his entire attention on the platter of steaming stew and the mug of hot tea placed before him. Even the rock-hard ship’s biscuit had, when soaked in stew gravy, seemed almost delicious.

Leftrin had been there, and Alise, looking guilty and remorseful. She had sat down at the table with him, saying little after her initial embrace at their reunion, but watching him intently as he ate. She had been the one to measure out water and put it to warm for him, even bringing the steaming bucket to the door of the room for him. When she had tapped, he had opened the door for her and let her bring it in.

‘I’m sorry there’s so little water to spare for bathing. When the river goes down more, we should be able to dig sand wells again. For now, it’s so murky still that all we get is mud soup.’

‘It’s fine, Alise. It’s more than enough. All I want to do is sponge myself off and get some salve on my scalds. I’m glad to see that you’re safe. But I’m so weary right now.’ His words skipped across the top of their relationship, refusing to engage her any more deeply than if he were speaking to Davvie. Not now. He needed to be apart from all of them for a time, but especially her.

She did not miss the distance he set between them. Her words were full of courtesy but she still tried to reach him. ‘Of course, of course. I won’t bother you just now. Make yourself comfortable first. But afterwards I know you are tired, Sedric, but I need to talk to you. Just a few words before you rest.’

‘If you must,’ he said, in his weariest voice. ‘Later.’

‘As you wish, then. I am so glad you are alive and found again.’

And then she was gone. He’d sat down on his bunk and let himself relax. Strange, how his little musty, fusty room could seem almost cosy after all he had recently experienced. Even the rumpled pallet looked inviting.

He’d let his filthy ragged clothing fall to the floor as he disrobed. He took his time washing himself. His skin was too tender to hurry. Even as he dreamed of a tub full of hot, sudsy water, he was grateful for this small mercy. The water had cooled and turned a nasty shade of brown by the time he was finished. He found a clean nightshirt and donned it. It was an incredible pleasure to have something soft next to his abused skin. Washing had shown him that the large bruise on his face was merely the most obvious of the injuries that Jess had dealt him. There were bruises on his back and on his legs that he scarcely remembered getting.

After he was as clean as he could get with such limited water, he smoothed scented oil onto the worst of his scalds, frowning over how little he had left. Someone had laundered some of his clothing. He dressed himself, looked at his discarded clothing and realized it was little more than rags now. With his foot, he pushed it towards the door.

That was when he heard the faint jingle of metal against the floor. He lifted his candle and peered closer, wondering what he could have dropped. There, on the floor, was his locket. Habit made him open it. And there, in the candle’s dim light, Hest looked out at him.

He’d commissioned the tiny portrait from one of the best painters of miniatures in Bingtown. The man had to be good; Hest had sat for him only twice, and was very ungracious about both appointments, acceding to the request only because Sedric had pleaded for it as a birthday gift. Hest had thought it overly sentimental, as well as dangerous. ‘I warn you, if anyone catches a glimpse of you wearing it, I shall deny all knowledge and leave you to their mockery.’

‘As I expect,’ Sedric had replied. Even then, he now saw, he had begun to accept that perhaps his feelings for Hest were deeper than any Hest had for him. Now he looked down into the supercilious smile and recognized the slight curl of his lip that the artist had caught so accurately. Not even for a portrait could Hest think of him with respect, let alone love.

‘Did I make you up?’ he asked the tiny picture. ‘Did you ever exist as the person I longed for you to be?’ He snapped the locket shut, coiled the chain into his palm and closed his hand around it, then sat on the edge of his flat, hard bunk, his loosely clenched hands to his temples. He closed his eyes and commanded his memories. One kiss that Hest had initiated in gentleness rather than as demand. One open-handed touch that was pure affection and nothing else. One word of praise or affection, unhinged by sarcasm. He was certain there had been such moments, but he could not call one to the forefront of his mind.

Unbidden, the thought of Carson’s hand brushing his injured face came to him. Strange, that the callused hand of the hunter had been gentler than any touch he had ever received from the gentlemanly Hest.

He’d never met anyone like Carson. He hadn’t asked him to conceal his role in Jess’ death, yet when he had been recounting his rescue of Sedric, the hunter’s name hadn’t come into it. He hadn’t mentioned the boat, letting all the others assume whatever they wished about it. Before they had left the debris raft, Carson had insisted on cleaning out the boat, scrubbing away the bloodstains and bailing out the stinking bilge water. He’d cleaned the hatchet and restored it to its sheath. Not once during that operation had he mentioned that he was obscuring all traces of the murder.

He’d simply done it. And shielded him since then from the questions. He imagined that sooner or later, it would come out. Relpda was too proud of what she had done to keep quiet forever. But he was grateful it wasn’t just now. His own secret was too tightly tied to Jess’ death. He didn’t want anyone picking at one thread to discover where it might lead. For although Carson doubted that Leftrin had been involved with Jess, Sedric was not too sure. It would explain so many things: why he had set out on such a ridiculous and unprofitable errand, why he had cosied up to Alise, and how Jess had become a member of the party so easily. Yes. He was certain there were secrets that Leftrin wasn’t sharing with anyone. And he feared that if Leftrin thought those secrets were threatened, he might take action. The captain, he felt, was capable of anything. Discovering his secret had only confirmed the opinion Sedric had had of him since the beginning.