“The whole Council?” Reyn sounded horrified.

“Possibly. Maybe not. But we don’t know, and if we go to the wrong person, we may be running our heads into the snare.”

“And there’s no time,” Bellin observed heavily. “If there are Chalcedeans crawling all through this town and they’re not getting rid of them, they’re welcome to them. The ship spoke to all of us, plainer than he ever has. He can keep that baby alive for now, but the sooner we get the child to a dragon, the better.”

Leftrin swallowed his mouthful of coffee. “It bothers me that a newborn baby needs a dragon.” He knew how the dragons had changed their keepers, giving each a few drops of blood or a scale to eat. But that was keeper business, and perhaps the secret was not his to reveal. Still, it was easier to talk about that puzzle than dwell on what it might mean to have the Council in league with Chalcedeans. How far had the Cassarick Traders fallen? Trafficking with Chalcedeans was forbidden. He’d known that when he’d felt forced to bring Arich up the river. Trafficking in dragon parts was worse; it was the breaking of a signed contract, an offense to the very core of Trader culture. That idea spoke of changes to Rain Wild society that seemed almost impossible to consider. Easier to ponder why a baby needed a dragon to live than to wonder what could persuade a man to betray his own people for money.

Reyn was the one who attempted to answer his question. “I don’t understand it completely myself, Captain.” He sighed. “Malta and I know that we changed, and her brother Selden changed, after exposure to the dragon Tintaglia. We’ve had years to think and talk about it. We think that being around dragons and the things of dragons, such as the artifacts from the Elderling cities, are what change people—even babies in the womb, if the mothers have been exposed. But with us, Tintaglia guided our changes and intensified them. So instead of deforming or killing us, the changes gave us grace and beauty. And possibly an extended life span, though that we can’t know as yet.”

He sighed again, more heavily. “It was, we thought, a blessing. Until now. I had assumed that our baby would inherit the same benefits we had received. Malta was more worried about the changes than I was. But her fears were justified. Our baby is born changed, and the changes are not for the better. Malta said that he was grayish and not even crying at first. She says that since she brought him to the ship, Tarman has helped him. And we know that a liveship’s wood comes from a dragon’s cocoon, so perhaps Tarman can adjust some of our child’s changes. But Malta says the ship has told her he cannot remedy all that is wrong with our baby. That it will take a dragon’s intervention to put his changes on a path that will, at the least, let him live to be an adult and perhaps transform him into an Elderling.” Reyn stopped speaking and simply looked at Leftrin.

Earlier in the day, he had seemed to Leftrin so grand and elevated, an Elderling of old, scion of a wealthy Trader family, dressed in his fine clothes and carrying himself as a man of importance. Now he looked dazed with misfortune and very young. Very human.

The silence held in the galley. The sense of waiting was broken when Reyn made his request. “Please. Can you take us to Kelsingra and the dragons? As soon as possible?”

It was his decision. He was the captain of the Tarman, and no one else could tell him what to do. The running of a ship was never a democracy. But as he lifted his sandy eyes and looked at his crew members crowded into the galley, their thoughts were plain. If he gave the word, Bellin and Swarge would cast off the lines this instant, and Skelly would help them. Hennesey was watching him, waiting for his words, leaving the decision up to him. Big Eider stood by, waiting as he always waited for his next order. He wore a clean new shirt: he’d been to see his mother, then. Grigsby, the ship’s ginger cat, floated up and settled on top of the galley table and then walked over to bump his head confidently against the Elderling’s folded hands. Reyn absently petted the cat, and Grigsby gave off his rattling purr.

“You don’t want to tell the Council anything? Not about the Chalcedeans, not about what Malta had to do?”

“I’m sure they’ll know soon enough, if they don’t already.” Reyn’s voice was grim. “As soon as he’s found dead, someone will be reporting back to the Council about it.”

“That could be enlightening to watch. See who flinches, see who knows more than he should.”

“It could be dangerous, too.” Reyn made a sound that was not a short laugh but something darker. “And I don’t really care anymore. Their dirty politics don’t matter to me. My son does. Malta does.”