Geder’s thighs were chapped and weeping. His back ached. The spring breeze that blew down from the heights smelled of snow and ice. Around him, the remnants of the Vanai campaign rode or marched. They sang no songs, and no one spoke to Geder apart from the bare necessary business of moving the few hundred men, carts, and horses the last few days’ journey. Even in his tiny rooms in Vanai with only his lamp-eyed squire for company and Alan Klin’s worst duties to fill his day, Geder hadn’t felt the full power of being isolated within a crowd.
He could feel the attention of the men on him, the condemnation. No one said a word, of course. Not one among them all stood up and told Geder to his face that he was a monster. That what he’d done was worse than crime. There wasn’t any need, because of course Geder knew. In all the long days and cold nights since he’d turned back to the north and home, the roar of the flames hadn’t left his ears. His dreams had all been of men and women silhouetted against the fire. He’d been ordered to protect Vanai, and instead he’d done this. If King Simeon ordered him cut down on the throne room floor, it would only be justice.
He had tried to distract himself with his books, but even the legends of the Righteous Servant couldn’t pull him away from the constant, gnawing question: what would the king’s judgment be? On his best days, Geder imagined King Simeon stepping down from the Severed Throne itself to put a royal hand on Geder’s weeping eyes and absolving him. On his worst, the king sent him back to Vanai to be staked to the ground among the dead and eaten by the same crows that had gorged themselves on their bodies.
Between those extremes, Geder’s mind found room for a nearly infinite variety of bleak imaginings. And as the mountains and valleys grew familiar, the dragon’s road shifting between hills that he’d known a hundred times before, Geder found that each new scenario of his death and humiliation left him with a grim hope. Would he be set afire himself? That would be just. Would he be put in a public gaol and pelted with shit and dead animals? It would be what he deserved. Anything- anything -would be better than this grinding and silent regret.
The great promontory on which Camnipol sat appeared at the horizon, the dark stone blued by air and distance. The Kingspire itself was hardly more than a sliver of light. A lone horseman could make the ride in a couple of days. The full company might need as long as five. The king’s cunning men could probably see them already. Geder’s gaze kept drifting up to the great city, caught by longing and dread. With every mile, the fear grew stronger and the other traffic upon the road thicker.
The farmlands surrounding the capital city were among the best in the world, dark soil irrigated by the river and still rich from battles fought there a thousand years before. Even in the starving season just after the thaw, the land smelled of growth and the promise of food. Goatherds drove their flocks down the dragon’s road from the low winter pastures toward the mountains in the west. Farmers led oxen to the fields ripe for tilling and planting. Tax collectors rode with their petty entourages of sword-and-bows, scraping what could be had of the small towns before their rent contracts expired. It was a rare thing to see a lone man on a good horse, and so Geder knew that the grey stallion coming south was meant for him. It was only when the horse drew up and he saw the rider was Jorey Kalliam that his anxiety broke and his breath came easily.
He turned his own mount off the dragon’s jade and into the roadside muck, letting the column move forward without him. Jorey pulled his horse so close that the beasts could have slapped each other’s faces with their tails, and Geder’s knee nearly touched Jorey’s saddle. Exhaustion greyed Jorey’s face, but his eyes were bright and sharp as a hunting bird.
“What’s the news?” Geder asked.
“You need to come ahead,” Jorey said. “Quickly.”
“The king?” Geder asked and Jorey shook his head.
“My father,” he said. “He wants you there as soon as you can.”
Geder licked his lips and looked up at the carts passing slowly by them. Some of the carters and swordsmen pretended not to notice the two of them, others stared openly. Ever since they’d left the corpse of Vanai, Camnipol was the goal he’d held before him, an end to his struggles. Now that the time had arrived, he wanted to delay it just a little more.
“I don’t think it would be wise,” Geder said. “There’s no one to leave in command, and if I’m-”
“Give it to Broot,” Jorey said. “He’s not particularly bright, but he’s competent enough to lead a column down a road. Just tell him to make camp outside the eastern gate and wait for word. Don’t let him order the disband.”
“It’s… There’s morale to think of,” Geder said. “I don’t want the men to feel I’ve abandoned them.”
Jorey’s expression was eloquent. Geder hung his head, the blush glowing from his cheeks.
“I’ll find Broot,” he said.
“And bring your best clothes,” Jorey said.
While he gave Broot the instructions Jorey had given him, Geder also changed for a bay gelding who had been at rest trot for the morning. When Geder left his first command behind, it was on a young, fast horse with Jorey Kalliam at his side. The city was much too far to make at a gallop, but Geder couldn’t help himself. For a few minutes, he let the animal beneath him press itself against the wind, glorying in the illusion of freedom if not the fact.
They stopped for camp at a black-roofed shack where a muddy path met the dragon’s road, both of them too exhausted to do more than see to their horses. Geder collapsed into a dreamless sleep and woke in the morning to find Jorey cinching the girth on the gelding. They had taken to the road almost before Geder had cleared the grogginess from his head.
Before them, Camnipol rose.
The approach from the south was the steepest, the green band of dragon’s jade tracing its way up the stone of the promontory like a bit of child’s ribbon dropped to the ground. Time and weather had eaten away the stone itself, leaving stretches of a hundred feet or more where the road curved out into the empty air with nothing but caution to hold travelers to the path. The biting spring wind didn’t come from any of the four points of the compass, but only down from the city or up from the plain below. The caves and shacks that clung to the face of the stone often needed rough wooden bridges to reach the road itself. The constant ache in Geder’s legs distracted him, and the bulk of stone and rough brush obscured his view, so that until they were nearly at the last turn he didn’t notice the Kingspire growing larger, the walls of the city gaining bulk. Instead, the great, shining arches and grand towers seemed to appear from nothing, a city built of dreams.
The southern gate was narrow, hardly more than a slit in the high grey stone with doors of worked bronze and dragon’s jade that slid aside to allow passage. Just outside the doors, a dozen men in enameled plate sat on warhorses with barding that matched their riders.
As Geder and Jorey drew near, the men drew their swords. The blades flashed in the afternoon sun, and Geder’s heart thudded in his chest like a fox in a trap. Here was the moment he’d been anticipating and dreading. Jorey nodded him forward with a smile that Geder couldn’t quite interpret. It didn’t matter. Geder swallowed his fear and rode trembling to his surrender wishing he’d remembered to put on his good leather cloak.
A single figure strode out of the shadows where the road passed through the wall. Though he wasn’t mounted, the man commanded the attention of all those assembled. He was Firstblood, and older. His temples were grey, his face sharp and intelligent. The way he held himself gave the impression of being taller than the horsemen. Geder encouraged his gelding forward. Up close, there was no mistaking Jorey’s father. Their eyes were the same shape, and the set of their jaws. He looked down at Dawson Kalliam.
“Sir Palliako,” the elder Kalliam said.
Geder nodded.
“It is my honor to welcome you to the Undying City,” Dawson Kalliam said. And then, sharply, “Honors!”
The horsemen lifted their swords in salute. Geder squinted at them. He’d never seen someone of noble blood called to the king’s justice, but this wasn’t how he’d expected it to be. From nowhere, voices rose together in a long, celebratory cry. And strangest of all, snowflakes began skirling down from the broad blue sky.
No. Not snowflakes. Flower petals. Geder looked up, and from at the top of the walls, hundreds of people looked back. Geder lifted an uncertain hand, and the crowd above him roared.
“Coe will see to your mount,” Dawson said. “We have a litter waiting.”
It took a moment to understand, but then Geder slid to the ground, letting Jorey’s father lead him into the twilight break between the city walls. He didn’t think to ask who Coe might be.
The litter was ornate, bearing the crest and colors of House Kalliam, but with a blaze of cloth on either side in the grey and blue of Palliako. It had two velvet-upholstered chairs facing each other, and eight Tralgu squatted by the poles. Dawson took the seat that faced backward. Geder pushed a lock of greasy hair back from his eyes. His legs were trembling from the ride. The arrow slits and murder holes all through the city wall were crowded with smiling eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Geder said.
“A few of my friends and I have sponsored your revel. They’re traditional for a leader returning from military victory.”
Geder turned around slowly. Something heavy seemed to have taken root in his belly, and the high stone rising above him tilted a little, like a young tree in a high wind. His mouth was dry.
“Victory?” he said.
“The sacrifice of Vanai,” Dawson said. “Bold and commanding. It was a braver decision than this kingdom has seen in a generation, and there are those of us who would see that fierceness return to Antea.”
In Geder’s mind, a woman crawled up over the walls of the dead city, flames leaping behind the darkness of her body. In his memory, she fell. The roar of the flames filled his ears again as if it had followed him, and his vision narrowed. That was a victory? Wide Tralgu hands took his shoulder and guided him into his seat. He stared dumbly at Dawson as the litter shifted under them, and they rose.
The southern gate opened into a rough square. Geder had been there before, and knew what the chaos of beggars, merchants, and guards, oxen and carts and feral dogs looked like. This was like walking into the Camnipol dreamed by a boy who had only heard its glories described. Three hundred people at the least stood behind another honor guard, waving banners of House Palliako. A platform stood to the right with men in embroidered cloaks and cloth-of-gold tunics. There was the Baron of Watermarch. Beside him, a young man in the colors of House Skestinin. Not the lord himself, but perhaps his eldest son. Perhaps half a dozen more whom Geder’s reeling mind half recognized before the litter moved on. And then, at the end, his head held high and tears streaming down his cheeks, Geder saw his father’s face, and he saw the pride in it.
The crowd followed, cheering and tossing handfuls of flowers and paper-wrapped candies. The sound of them overwhelmed any hope of conversation, so he could only stare at Lord Kalliam in amazement.
At a meeting of half a dozen streets, the litter hesitated. Near the Kingspire, the buildings grew three and four stories high and people hung out of every window, watching him pass. A girl high and to his left pitched out a fistful of bright-colored ribbon, the threads dancing in the air as they fell. Geder waved to her, and something veritiginous and sweet washed through him.
Despite what he’d done, he was a hero. Because of what he’d done. It was more than relief; it was reprieve, forgiveness, and absolution. He lifted his arms, drinking in the adulation like a starving man. If it was a dream, he’d rather die than wake from it.
It was a difficult decision,” Geder said, leaning across the table and talking loud. “To raze a city like that is a terrible thing. I didn’t choose that path lightly.”
“Absolutely not,” the second son of the Baron of Nurring said, hardly slurring his words at all. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Where’s the valor in doing the easy thing? There isn’t any. But to face the dilemma. Take action.”
“Definitive action,” Geder said.
“Exactly,” the boy replied. “Definitive action.”
The revel grounds connected to Dawson Kalliam’s mansion. It wasn’t as grand as the ballrooms and gardens on an actual holding, but it was near. And to have so much room inside the walls of the Undying City said more than three times the space in the countryside. Candles glowed up and down the high-domed walls, and blown glass lanterns hung from threads too thin to see in the dusk. Wall-wide doors opened to fresh gardens that still smelled of turned earth and early flowers. The feast and dance had run their course. Half a dozen highborn men had taken to the dais to proclaim the virtues of Geder’s actions in the Free Cities.
There had been none of the weakness, timidity, and corruption that had poisoned the generals of Antea for too long now, they said. Geder Palliako had shown his mettle not only to the Free Cities, not only to the world. He had shown it to his own countrymen. Through his actions, he had reminded them all what purity could accomplish. Even the king had sent a messenger with a written notice recognizing Geder’s return to Camnipol.
The applause had been intoxicating. The respect and admiration of men who hadn’t so much as nodded to him in any of his times at court. Then the dance. Geder generally avoided that particular court pastime, but Dawson Kalliam’s wife Clara had insisted that that he accompany her around the garden yard at least once, and by the time he’d made the circuit, he felt almost surefooted. He’d made another few rounds with a few younger, unattached women before his thighs and ankles began to protest sharply enough to stop him. Jorey had brought his leather cloak, and as the day cooled toward night and the wine and beer flowed a bit more freely, Geder was glad of it.
“The mark of a real leader,” Geder said, and then lost the thread. “The mark of a leader…”
“I hope you’ll excuse me,” his father said. “Geder, my boy?”
Geder rose to his feet and his drinking companion nodded his respect and turned away, his steps generally steady.
“It’s getting late for an old man,” Lerer Palliako said, “but I couldn’t go without seeing you. You have exceeded anything I could have hoped. I haven’t seen people talking about our family in terms like this since… Well, ever, I suppose.”
“Let me go with you,” Geder said.
“No no no. It’s your night. Enjoy it.”
“I’d enjoy talking with you,” Geder said, and his father’s eyes softened.
“Well, then.”
Together, Geder and his father found Lady Kalliam and offered their profound thanks. Somehow the conversation turned until they were accepting her kind words, and they left with the feeling that the night had been an intimate affair with old friends they’d rarely seen. She insisted that they take the litter that had carried Geder through the streets earlier. Walking through the darkened streets wasn’t safe, and even if it had been, it wouldn’t do. Jorey appeared as they were about to take their last leave and offered Geder his hand. Geder almost wept, taking it.
As the Tralgu slaves hauled them through the night-dark streets, Geder looked at the stars scattered across the sky. Away from the gleeful crowd, the elation of relief cooled a degree. He was surprised to find that some part of the dread was still there, not sharp anymore, not strong, but present. Not even fear, but the as yet unbroken habit of fear.
His father cleared his throat.
“You’re on the rise, my boy. You’re very much on the rise.”
“I don’t know about that,” Geder said.
“Oh, no. No, I heard those men tonight. You’ve caught the court at a delicate time. You’re in very real danger of becoming a symbol of something.” His father’s intonation was merry, but there was something in the way he held his shoulders that made Geder think of a man bracing for a blow.
“I’m not a court pigeon,” Geder said. “I’ll be pleased to come home and work through some of the books that I found down there. You’d like some of them. I’ve started a translation of an essay about the last dragons that claims to date from only a few hundred years after Morade fell. You’d like it.”
“I’m sure I would,” Lerer said.
The Tralgu in the lead grunted expressively and the litter spun elegantly around a tight turn, dipping just a degree to counterbalance the shift.
“I saw Sir Klin didn’t attend tonight,” Lerer said.
“I wouldn’t have expected him,” Geder said. For a moment, he was on a frozen mill pond again, discovering the fortune that would have saved Klin’s protectorate. “I imagine he’s feeling a bit chagrined after all. Vanai was his, and he got called back on a leash. It must embarrass him, seeing me greeted with all this.”
“It must. Indeed it must. Lord Ternigan didn’t come either.”
“He may have been called for elsewhere,” Geder said.
“That’s it. I’m sure that’s it.”
In the dark streets, a dog yapped and complained. The breeze that felt cool in the crowded ballrooms and gardens was chill now.
“Court events usually don’t have everyone appear,” Geder said. “I wasn’t even expecting this much.”
“Of course not. And it was quite a thing, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
They lapsed into silence. Geder’s back ached. Between riding and dancing, he expected to feel half crippled in the morning.
“Geder?”
Geder grunted.
“Be careful with these men. They aren’t always what they seem. Even when they take your side, it’s best to spare an eye for them.”
“I will,” Geder said.
“And don’t forget who you are. Whoever they want you to be, don’t forget who you really are.”
“I won’t.”
“Good,” Lerer Palliako said. He was hardly more than a shadow against a shadow, except that the starlight caught his eyes. “That’s my good boy.”
Abraham, Daniel
The Dragon’s Path
Marcus
Marcus leaned low, arms to his sides. The pommel of the blackwood sword in his hand was slick with sweat. The Firstblood boy shifting on the far side of the pit wore a pair of fighter’s trousers and a serious expression. Marcus waited. The boy licked his lips and hefted his sword.
“No hurry,” Marcus said.
The air of the gymnasium was hot, close, and damp. The grunts and shouts of the other fighters struggled over the rush of water in the pipes that fed baths. At least a dozen men stood around the edges of the pit. Most were Kurtadam or Firstblood, though a pair of Timzinae held themselves a little apart. And Yardem Hane, panting and sweat-soaked. No Cinnae had come.
Marcus saw the boy’s weight shift, committing to the attack. The boy held his sword to the side, eastern-style, so he had some training. Marcus blocked, chalk dust rising from the blackwood blade, and moved to the boy’s left. The boy turned, and Marcus brought his sword down overhand. The boy blocked so aggressively that both swords bounced back. Marcus shifted the blade to his left hand and struck again, low this time, watching the boy’s stance.
Avoiding both of Marcus’s blows emboldened him. The boy took a firmer grip, feinted clumsily to the right, and darted left. Marcus blocked the attack casually, pulling his blade through the thick air to slap hard across the boy’s chest. Marcus watched his opponent stumble back. The chalked practice sword left a line from the boy’s lowest rib up to his collarbone.
“Who’s next?” he called.
“That’s the last, sir,” Yardem said.
“Thank you, Captain Wester, sir,” the boy said. The skin where Marcus had struck was red and rising. He felt a passing chagrin. He hadn’t meant to hurt him.
“Thank you, son. You did well,” Marcus said, and the boy grinned.
Marcus put his hands on the side of the pit and pulled himself up. He ached from shoulder to foot, and the pain felt good. Yardem tossed him a wad of the threadbare cloth, and Marcus wiped the sweat off his face and neck. This was the third collection of men they’d tried as new additions to the company. As with the others, it had been a mixed lot. Some had come because they were desperate and had no skills apart from a willingness to cause pain. Others because, by doing it, they could say they’d been in the pit against Marcus Wester. And a few-no more than a handful-because it was the work they knew and they happened to be at loose ends when Marcus had put out his call.
One of the latter was a stout Kurtadam with a gray-gold pelt and a Cabral acent. Marcus met Yardem’s gaze and pointed his chin toward the candidate. Yardem nodded once.
“You,” Marcus said. “What was your name again, friend?”
“Ahariel,” the Kurtadam said. “Ahariel Akkabrian.”
“You know how to fight. What put you in Porte Oliva?”
“Took contract with a company out of Narinisle. Mostly garrison work, but the commander started bunking with the footmen. Got to be about gossip and hurt feelings, I had to get out. I was thinking of the Free Cities. Figure they’ll be jumpy for years with what happened to Vanai and all. But I heard you were looking.”
“It won’t be garrison work,” Marcus said.
The Kurtadam shrugged.
“I figured you have your pick of work. Wodford and Gradis and all. If it was good enough to hold you, it’d be enough for a sword-and-bow like me.”
“You’re an optimist,” Marcus said. “But we’d be pleased to have you if the terms suffice.”
“Wouldn’t waste your time if they didn’t,” Ahariel said.
“Report in the morning, then. We’ll put you on the duty roster.”
Ahariel saluted, turned, and walked away.
“I like him,” Marcus said. “Doesn’t talk much.”
“Fit right in, sir,” Yardem said.
“Feels good, having a real company again.”
“Does.”
Marcus dropped the scrap of cloth onto the edge of the pit.
“Is it time?” he asked.
“We should go soon,” Yardem said.
The early summer streets of Porte Oliva were hot and crowded. Beggars haunted the corners, and the press of bodies in the streets seemed to add as much heat as the wide, golden coastal sun. The air smelled of the ocean, of honey and hot oil and cumin. The clothes also changed. No jackets, no cloaks. Cinnae men and women strode through the street in diaphanous robes that made their thin bodies seem to shift and bend like shadows or spirits. The Kurtadam shaved themselves until there was hardly enough fur to tie beads onto and wore loincloths and halters barely sufficient to protect the most basic modesty. It was the Firstblood, though, that kept Marcus’s attention. Men and women split out of their winter cocoons into bright colors, green and yellow and pink. Tunics were cut down the sides to let air and covert glances skid across bare skin. Every day had the feeling of festival about it.
Marcus didn’t like it.
It reminded him too much of a time when he’d been young and unable to distinguish lust from affection, and memories of that time always led to the times that came after. Meeting a blue-eyed girl named Alys, wooing her with brave tales and pale flowers. The nights of longing, and then one moonlit night at the end of springtime, a shared apple, a kiss beside a waterfall, and the end of longing. His perfect woman. In a just world, she’d be with him still.
Meriam would have been old enough now to suffer the same stirrings and confusions of the flesh, and he would have been as powerless to force wisdom upon her as his father had been with him. But no. By now she’d have been old enough to have married young and imprudently. Another season, and Marcus might have been tickling a grandson under the chin. Being reminded of all those unlived moments was what he disliked about the city. But it was also what he disliked about the world. So long as there was work that needed doing, he could put it all aside.
The question of where to put the permanent home of the new bank had been easily solved when Cithrin spoke to the daughter of the gambler whose stall they slept above. She’d been hoping to talk her father into leaving the trade for years, and had very nearly succeeded. The lower floor was wide enough to support a small barracks, and the basement had an iron strongbox set in stone and countersunk deep into the earth. And so now, where the gambler’s stall had once been, the Medean bank of Porte Oliva now lived in modest elegance. The day that the old gambler had signed the contracts, Cithrin announced the change by having the walls repainted in the brightest white she could find. Where the caller had stood, chanting his litany of wagers and odds, a wide tin pot filled with black soil had the thin green stalks and broad sloping leaves of half a dozen tulips still only threatening to bloom.
“Straight to her?” Yardem asked, gesturing at the private stair that led to the rooms that were now exclusively Cithrin’s. Marcus shook his head.
“When we’re ready to go,” he said.
Once, the thick wooden door had opened onto a common area with a high counter on one end. The counter was gone now, and the chalk marks on the slate weren’t offered odds, but the names of Marcus’s new guards and their duty rotations. All four were waiting now where the gambler’s clients had been, looking out the narrow, barred windows and making crude jokes about the people passing by on the street. When Marcus entered, the laughter stopped, and the new guards-two Firstblood men, a Kurtadam woman, and a Timzinae boy Marcus had taken on a hunch-stood to attention. He’d need more. Overhead, the boards creaked where Cithrin was pacing.
“Bag ready?”
“Yes, Captain Wester, sir,” the Kurtadam woman said.
Marcus nodded at her, his mind suddenly an embarrassing blank. She had broad shoulders and hips, and arms as thick as her legs. Her pelt was a glossy black, darker even than the Timzinae boy’s scales. And her name was… Edir? Edem?
“Enen,” Yardem said. “You carry the coin. Barth and Corisen Mout take forward and back. Captain and I will take flanks.”
“And me?” the Timzinae boy asked. The nictatating membranes of his eyes opened and closed in a fast nervous tic. He was easy enough. Whatever his name was, everyone called him Roach.
“You’ll stay here and wake the others if anything interesting happens,” Marcus said. Roach deflated a bit, so Marcus went on. “If anyone’s going to make a play for the strongbox, they’ll do it when most of us are away. Keep the door barred, and your ears sharp. You’re going to be in more danger than we are.”
Roach saluted sharply. Enen stifled a smile. The two Firstblood men went to the weapons chest and started arraying the most vicious weapons that the queensmen would let them carry through the streets. Marcus turned and went back out toward the private stairway, Yardem at his side.
“I’m never going to remember all these names,” Marcus said.
“You always say that, sir.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
“Hm. Good to know.”
The rooms that had seemed so small and cramped when it had been just him, Yardem, Cithrin, and the piled wealth of Vanai had become a respectable private residence for the new head of the Medean bank. It was little more than a room in the back with her bed and desk and a meeting room at the front with a small privacy closet to the side, but Cithrin had put together a hundred small touches that transformed it: fine strips of cloth that hung over the windows, a small religious icon nestled in a corner, the short lacquered table presently covered with old shipping records and copied bills of lading. Taken together, they gave the impression of the home of a woman twice her age. It was as much a costume as anything Master Kit and his players sported, and one that Cithrin wore well.
“I need someone from the Port Registry who’ll talk to me,” Cithrin said instead of hello. “The trade ships from Narinisle should be coming, and I need to know better how that works. It looks like half the trade in the city happens when those ships come in.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” Yardem said.
“Where to today?” Marcus asked.
“A brewer’s just outside the wall,” Cithrin said. “I met her at the taproom. Her guild’s letting her replace her vats, but she doesn’t have the coin to afford it.”
“So we’re loaning it to her.”
“Actually, she’s not permitted to accept loans at interest,” Cithrin said, pulling a light beaded shawl across her shoulders and arranging it the way Master Kit had taught her. “Guild rules. But she is permitted to take money from business partners. So we’re buying part of her business.”
“Ah,” Marcus said.
“If she comes short, we’re in a position to take her shop in hand. If I cultivate a relationship with a cooper and a few taphouses, I can arrange the kind of mutual support that makes everyone very happy for a very long time.”
“Long time,” Marcus said, tasting the words.
“And anyway, breweries are always good investments,” Cithrin said. “Magister Imaniel always said so. There’s never going to be an off market for ale.”
Cithrin looked around the room, pursed her lips, and nodded more to herself than to them. Together, they walked back down the stairway, Cithrin stopping to secure the door behind them. In the street, a half dozen children were playing a game that involved kicking an old wineskin and screaming. Cithrin turned toward the entrance, almost bumping against a Kurtadam man. Marcus silently added the construction of an interior door to his list of things that ought to be done. Having to walk outside to go from one set of rooms to the other had been pleasant enough when they were hiding. Now it was just an unnecessary risk.
The Firstblood men, Corisen Mout and Barth, were laughing with each other but sobered as the three of them came in. Enen was ready, a small leather bag strapped across her shoulders, her hands free and ready. She wore a curved dagger and a weighted baton on her hips. When they walked out to the street, the six of them fell into an easy formation. Despite the close, crowded streets, their path was always clear, the citizens of Porte Oliva standing aside to let them pass. Curious gazes followed them, but only a few especially bold beggars attempted the approach, and they tried for Cithrin. No one came near Enen and her burden of coin. They moved north, through the great wall, and to the spillover buildings of the city beyond it. The press of bodies was more than Marcus liked. The smells of sewer and sweat were thicker here, the streets both more crowded and wider than behind the wall in Porte Oliva’s center.
The brewer’s, when they reached it, was a two-story shop built around a narrow courtyard with its own well. Wide doors stood open to the yard, the vats and barrels squatting in the yeast-stinking shadows. The brewer, a Cinnae woman so thick about the body and face she could almost have passed for Firstblood, came out to meet them, grinning like they were family.
“Magistra Cithrin! Come in, come in!”
Marcus watched as Cithrin and the brewer kissed one another’s cheeks. He nodded to Enen, and she shrugged off the bag of coins and presented it to the girl as if Cithrin were what she appeared to be. None of the new guards thought the bank was anything different than it claimed. There was no reason that they should.
Cithrin took the bag and gestured to Marcus that he and the others should stay in the yard. He nodded once, and Cithrin and the brewer took one another by the hand and walked into the dim recesses of the brewery, talking like old friends. A Cinnae boy no older than Roach came out wearing a thin leather apron and bearing mugs of fresh ale. It was sweeter than Marcus liked, but with an almost bready aftertaste that he could learn to enjoy. Marcus let the three new guards settle themselves on the stone wall of the well before he met Yardem’s eyes and glanced across the yard. The Tralgu drank down his ale, belched, and ambled along at Marcus’s side.
“Decent ale,” Marcus said.
“Is.”
“What do you think of this scheme of hers?”
Yardem’s ears flicked back, then forward again, considering. Marcus knew that just by asking he’d changed the Tralgu’s answer. What Yardem thought about a scheme that Marcus hadn’t questioned was a different thing.
“Seems to be working,” Yardem said. “Still more jewelry than I’d like in the basement, but we’ve got enough swords to scare off stray knives. I don’t know much about it, but it seems she’s likely to earn back the money she’s spending or near to it.”
“So that when the big men from Carse swoop down here, they’ll find it all more or less intact,” Marcus said. “She can hand it over to them, wash her hands, and there’s no harm done.”
“That’s the plan,” Yardem said carefully.
“Do you see her handing it back to them?”
Yardem stretched his long, thick arms, turning to look at the open brewery as if he were bored and it was in the way. Marcus waited in silence, hoping that the Tralgu would disagree and expecting that he wouldn’t.
“She’s going to try to keep it,” Yardem said.
“She doesn’t know she’s thinking about it, but yes,” Marcus said. “She’s good at this. Maybe very good. And she’s not the kind of girl who stops when she likes something too much.”
Yardem nodded slowly.
“How’s she going to do it?” he asked.
Marcus sipped his ale, washing his mouth with it, then spat it onto the courtyard stones. A dozen pigeons lifted off from the rooftop, spinning across the wide blue overhead.
“I don’t understand half of what she’s doing now,” he said. “Do you?”
“No.”
“I don’t know what she’ll try. Likely she doesn’t either. But when she sees it, she’s going to reach for it. Whether it’s a good idea or not.”