Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(26)

Captain Moy moved the cheese to one side and spread a parchment map of Ninys before us on the floor. From a pouch at his waist, he fetched a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and perched them incongruously on his nose. “Now,” he said, accepting a hunk of bread from his daughter, who was hacking at the loaf with her dagger, “where do you expect to find these half-dragon ladies?”

Nan’s eyes flashed briefly to my face when he said half-dragon, plainly curious.

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I don’t know Ninys at all. I see the others in visions, but only their immediate surroundings. That doesn’t tell me much.”

Moy seemed genuinely, absurdly delighted by my answer. “That’s the challenge. Two women, one large country. If you’re not back in Segosh in six weeks, Samsam will declare war on us—”

“No, they won’t,” said Josquin hastily, in case I couldn’t tell Moy was exaggerating. “But my cousin will.”

Moy shrugged and grinned. “We three know Ninys well. Describe what you’ve seen.”

I knew most about Bluey, the painter whose avatar left colorful swirls in water. “One paints murals. She’s doing a St. Jobertus now—I don’t know where—but previously she painted an amazing St. Fionnuala at Meshi.”

“Santi Fionani?” asked Nan. That was the Ninysh name for the Lady of Waters.

Moy jabbed a finger at a city along a river east of central Ninys. “How do you know it was Meshi?”

“I got lucky,” I said. “I once saw her outdoors, and glimpsed the city banner.”

“The one that says Meshi, under a pine,” said Josquin around a lump of cheese.

“They’re subtle in that part of the country,” said Moy. His daughter unscrewed the lid from a pot of ink and carefully dabbed a red dot next to the city with a brush.

“The priest at Santi Fionani’s may know where she went next,” said Josquin. “And Meshi was on Dame Okra’s list of strategically important lords, for the sulfur mine, no doubt. We would stop there in any case.”


This was encouraging. I hazarded a description of the second ityasaari, Glimmerghost: “The other woman lives a hermetic existence in a great pine forest—”

“The Pinabra,” said Moy, without blinking. “Meshi is at its western edge.”

Josquin made a sweeping gesture at the map. “It’s a large region, though. It rings the eastern mountains like a skirt.”

“Zat is place to get lost,” Nan said hesitantly. It was the first Goreddi I’d heard her speak. Her accent was poor, although she seemed to follow the conversation well enough.

“One thing at a time,” said Moy. “Meshi is goal enough for now, with plenty of palashos for us to visit between here and there.”

He got to his feet, Nan rolled up the map, and we were on the road in half an hour.



The palashos were numerous indeed; they dotted the countryside like carbuncles. Some days we stopped at two or three. Word got out that I played flute and Abdo danced, so we were often asked to perform. The Ninysh sometimes brought out dancers of their own. Abdo watched with rapt attention and then imitated the leaps and posturing all the way upstairs to bed. At some point Moy began to teach him the saltamunti and the voli-vola.

“Baronet Des Faiasho screamed in my face this evening,” I reported, about a week into our journey, to Glisselda and Kiggs from one of Palasho Faiasho’s guest rooms.

“Oh no!” cried Glisselda, simultaneously with Kiggs’s “Are you all right?”

I was reclining upon a four-poster bed that was draped in silk and bulging with feather bolsters; Des Faiasho knew how to treat a guest, even one he’d screamed at. “I’m fine. As ever, Josquin was right: these lords aren’t all gracious about what they owe Goredd. Some get defensive.”

“Josquin sounds like he’s quite often right,” said Kiggs drily.

I wanted so badly to tease him for being jealous, but of course I couldn’t. Luckily, Glisselda piped up: “Josquin this, Josquin that! Don’t let the suave Ninysh rascal lure you away. We want you home after all this.”

“Ah, Your Majesty, jealousy does not become you,” I said to Glisselda, sending Kiggs an indirect message. I rolled onto my stomach and propped myself on my elbows. “In any case, after clarifying that Goredd can’t push him around, Des Faiasho went on to commit fifteen hundred fighting men, armed and supplied, as well as grain, blacksmiths, carpenters—”

Glisselda listened no further than the number of men. She whooped in a most unqueenlike fashion. “An army! We’re accreting a foreign army. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Kiggs, I knew, would be jotting everything down conscientiously, so I continued listing supplies and specialists, finishing with the baronet’s strangest offer of all: “Des Faiasho imports sabanewt oil from the southern archipelagoes. He insists it’s a worthy substitute for naphtha in pyria.” Pyria was a sticky, flammable substance the knights employed in their martial art, the dracomachia.

“Is he certain it works?” said Glisselda, attentive again.

“I’m certain he wants to sell us some,” I said. “I can have samples sent.”

“Have them sent to Sir Maurizio at Fort Oversea so the knights can test it,” said Glisselda. “No one here can make St. Ogdo’s fire.”