The Dragon's Path

  “I don’t work for kings,” Marcus said as the servant boy set the mug onto the table before him. “It narrows my options. Since we’re on good terms, you and I…?”

  Qahuar nodded him on.

  “I didn’t know you could mix Firstblood and Jasuru,” Marcus said. “You’re the first I’ve seen.”

  The man spread his hands. And yet here I am.

  “We’re more common in Lyoneia. And there’s some work people would rather give a man who has no family.”

  “Ah,” Marcus said. “You’re a mule, then? No children.”

  “My blessing and my curse.”

  “I knew some men like that in the north. You get it with Cinnae and Dartinae mixes too. Knew some men who just claimed it too. Made them more popular with the women. Safe.”

  “There are consolations,” Qahuar said, smiling.

  Marcus imagined himself reaching across the table and breaking the man’s neck. It would be difficult. Jasuru were strong bastards, and fast besides. He took a long drink of his ale. It tasted of the brewery Cithrin had bought into. Clearly she’d arranged a deal with the taphouse. Qahuar cocked his head, smiling politely with his sharp-tipped teeth.

  She’s half your age, Marcus thought. She’s still a child. But he couldn’t say that either.

  “How are you finding life in Porte Oliva?” Marcus said instead.

  “I like it here. I miss being with my clan, but if I can bring them work… Well, it’s worth the price.”

  “Must be an impressive clan to go against the Medean bank. Not many would do that.”

  “I think of it more as the Medean bank going against us. It’ll be a good fight. Magistra Cithrin is an impressive woman.”

  “I’ve always thought so,” Marcus said.

  “Have you worked with her for a long time?”

  “We met in Vanai,” Marcus said. “Came out here with her.”

  “She’s a good employer?”

  “I’ve got no complaints.”

  “There was talk about you, you know. A simple branch bank, even one with a holding company like the Medean, with Marcus Wester guarding their house? People have read that as a sign that Magistra Cithrin favors a broader, more military strategy.”

  “What do you think?” Marcus asked, keeping voice neutral.

  “What do I think?” Qahuar said, leaning back against the wall. His brow was furrowed as if he were considering his own thoughts for the first time. He lifted a finger. “I think you have chosen this work because you aren’t interested in fielding a private army. And so I think the magistra isn’t either.”

  “Interesting thought.”

  “You’re a valuable man, Captain Wester. Many people know it.”

  Marcus laughed.

  “Are you trying to bribe me?” he asked. “You are, aren’t you? You’re asking whether I can be bought?”

  “Can you?” Qahuar Em asked without the slightest hint of shame in his voice.

  “There’s not enough gold in the world,” Marcus said.

  “I understand and respect that. But you understand that my duty to my clan required me to ask.”

  Marcus finished the last of his ale in a gulp and stood up.

  “We have any more business, sir?”

  Qahuar shook his head.

  “Truly, I am honored to have met you, Captain Wester. I respect you and I respect your employer.”

  “Good to know,” Marcus said, and then walked back out through the common room to wait for Cithrin on the street, and the heat be damned. When she came, hurrying down the street like a girl her own age, Marcus stepped out. Sweat beaded her skin and smudged the paints that she’d put to her eyes and lips.

  “It’s taken care of,” Cithrin said. “It’s good you came for me. That man’s a pretentious ass, but he’s going to be very useful.”

  “Your suitor in there tried to bribe me,” Marcus said.

  Cithrin paused, and he could see the chagrin in her eyes for less than a heartbeat, and then the mask fell back in place. She became neither the girl nor the woman-still-to-be but the false sophisticate that Master Kit had fashioned. It was the Cithrin that Marcus liked least.

  “Of course he did,” she said. “I wouldn’t have expected any less. Captain, I may not be returning to the house tonight. If I’m not there in the morning, don’t be alarmed. I’ll send word.”

  She might as well have thrown a brick at his head. He’s your enemy and I forbid you to sleep with that man and Please don’t do this crowded each other out. All he could manage was a nod. Cithrin must have seen something of it in his eyes, because she put her hand on his arm and squeezed gently before she went back inside.

  Marcus walked back down the street toward the house, then stopped, turned, and headed for the port instead. The sun, lazing down toward the horizon, pressed on his right cheek like a hand. Near the port, the traffic on the streets thickened. Someone had started putting up streamers of thread, the knots hung from windows and trees, the trailing ends blowing in the breeze like the tentacles of a jellyfish. The street puppeteers were staking out corners and public squares, sitting at them even when they weren’t performing. The ships from Narinisle might not arrive for weeks, but the celebration was already being prepared.

  The smell of the port itself was brine and fish guts. Marcus threaded his way past sailors and longshoremen, beggars and queensmen, to the wide square just past the final dock. Two taphouses and a public bath pressed for attention at the edges of the square, bright cloth banners and bored-looking women in too little cloth. At the farthest edge, a crowd stood enthralled around a theater cart. Master Kit wore a flowing robe of scarlet and gold and a wire-worked crown. He held Sandr’s unmoving body in his arms, a thin trickle of red-tinted water dripping down the boy’s flank.

  “How? How have I let this be? Oh Errison, Errison my son! My only son!” Master Kit called out, his voice breaking carefully so that all the words were still clear, and then slipped gracefully into verse. “I swear, dear boy, and heed this call! By dragon’s blood and bones of God, Alysor house shall fall!”

  Kit froze then, and a moment later, applause rang out. Marcus shifted forward through the crowd as Cary and Smit took the stage, Smit in a mockup of steel armor made from felt and tin and Cary in a tight black dress that had clearly been cut for Opal. Marcus watched through the long final act as the ancient rivalry between noble houses slaughtered first the guilty and then the innocent, mothers killing their daughters, fathers falling to poisons meant for their sons, and the world in general crashing in until at last Master Kit stood alone, all the other players lying at his feet, and wept. By the time the company rose, grinning to take their bows and gather the coins thrown to them, Marcus’s mind was almost back in order.

  As the company broke down the stage, Marcus walked to the back. Master Kit had changed back to his more customary clothes and was leaning against the seawall and wiping his face with a soft cloth. He smiled when he saw Marcus.

  “Captain! Good to see you. What did you think of the show?”

  “Convinced me,” he said.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Hornet! Watch the line there. No, the one you’re standing on!”

  Hornet danced to the side, and Master Kit shook his head.

  “Some days I’m amazed that boy hasn’t broken his leg getting up from his bedroll,” Kit said.

  “Cary’s getting better.”

  “I think she’s more comfortable now. By the end of the season I expect she’ll have all Opal’s old roles in place. I’m still hoping to find a girl to replace Cary, though. I can put Smit in fancy dress and high voice, but I’m afraid it gives the tragic scenes a somewhat lighter tone.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Some,” Kit said. “I’ve talked with a couple of girls who might be good. One’s more talented, but she lies. I find that being a good companion on the road is more important than being a good player on the stage. Theater craft is something I think I can teach. How to be a decent pers
on seems to be a harder thing.”

  Marcus sat, his back to the wall. In the west, the sun had fallen behind the roofs, but the clouds overhead still glowed gold and orange. Kit took a last swipe at his eyes and tucked the cloth into his belt.

  “There’s a tavern just the other side of the wall,” Master Kit said. “We’re staying in the back free of charge every night we play one of the comedies. We’re on our way back there now, if you’d care to join us.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Master Kit folded his arms. Concern showed in his eyes.

  “Captain? All’s well with the bank, I hope? Everything I’ve heard suggests that our girl is doing quite well.”

  “People keep bringing her money,” Marcus said.

  “That’s what we’d hoped for, isn’t it?”

  “Is.”

  “And yet?”

  Marcus squinted toward the bathhouse. Two Kurtadam men were shouting at each other, gesticulating toward the house, their words running over each other. A gangly Tralgu girl ambled by, watching them.

  “I need a favor,” Marcus said.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’d like you to tell me again how this is her mistake to make. And that I shouldn’t be trying to strap padding to every sharp edge she runs at.”

  “Ah,” Master Kit said.

  “She’s playing at higher stakes than she knows,” Marcus said, “and against people who have decades of experience. And…”

  “And?”

  Marcus ran his hand through his hair.

  “She’s wrapped herself in it. She doesn’t have any idea how much of herself she’s putting into this scheme. When it falls out from under her… I want to stop it now. Before she gets hurt.”

  “I hear you saying that you want to protect her.”

  “I don’t,” Marcus said. And then a moment later, “I do. And I have a poor record protecting women. So I want you to tell me that I shouldn’t be trying to.”

  “Why not take this to Yardem? He knows you better than I do, I expect.”

  “I know what he’s going to say. I even know the tone of voice he’s going to say it in. No point going through those motions.”

  “But you think you’d believe me?”

  “You’re persuasive.”

  Master Kit chuckled and squatted down beside him. Cary shouted, and the actor hauled the stage up on its hinges, the wooden planks transforming from floorboards to the side of a tall cart. Sandr went to harness the mules. The salt breeze stilled for a moment, then shifted, cool against Marcus’s cheek. The clouds greyed, losing the sunlight. It wouldn’t be long before the taverns and brothels and bathhouses all hung out their colored lanterns, trying to draw coins and customers the way they drew moths. The queensmen would be out. And Cithrin. Marcus tried not to think what Cithrin would be doing.

  Slowly, he laid out everything to the actor. Cithrin’s business plans, her ambitions for the bank and the escort fleet, her courting a relationship with her half-Jasuru rival. Master Kit listened carefully, and when Marcus ran out of words, he pursed his lips and looked up at the darkening sky.

  “I’ll say this, Captain, because it’s true. I believe that Cithrin has all the tools and talents she needs to make this work. If she pays attention, uses her best judgment, and gets only a little bit lucky, she can do this.”

  “Can is a lovely thing. Do you think she will?”

  Master Kit was silent for four long breaths together. When he spoke, his tone was melancholy.

  “Probably not.”

  Cithrin

  Cithrin lay in the darkness. Qahuar lay beside her, the slow deep rhythm of his breath barely audible under the chorus of crickets singing outside the window. The bedding beneath her, around her, was softer than skin and still damp with sweat.

  She’d thought that the first time was supposed to hurt, but it hadn’t. She wondered how many of the other things she’d heard about sex were wrong. If she’d been raised by a mother, there might have been someone to ask. Still, for someone who hadn’t had any clear idea what she was doing, the experiment seemed to have been a success. Qahuar had been drunk enough to abandon his discretion, and she’d followed his lead. A few kisses, a few caresses, and then he’d lifted off her dress, laid her back on his bed, and she’d had to do very little from there. The business of thrusting and grunting had been intimate and absurd, but she found herself thinking of him a bit more fondly afterward. Perhaps the bond that sex made grew from that combination of shared indulgence and indignity.

  Still, she was pleased that he was asleep. She was sober now, and between the excitement of the evening and her present sobriety, she had no illusions that rest would come to her. If he’d been awake, trying to maintain a conversation or play the host, it would only have been awkward. Better that he should snore and embrace his pillow and leave her free to think.

  If the spring shipping had gone quickly, if the blue-water trade was a bit early, if a hundred things that neither she nor anyone in the city had any way of knowing had happened, the first ships from Narinisle might arrive tomorrow. Or it might be weeks, as much as a month, before the traders knew what their fortunes were. The reports of the captains would carry the last information she needed—the activity of the pirates, the state of the northern ports, the possibility of civil war in Northcoast or of further military action from Antea. The governor would be expecting her proposal shortly after that.

  She imagined the auditor arriving. Maybe Komme Medean himself. She would greet him with a smile and lead him up to her rooms. Or perhaps it would be at the café. That would be even better. The milk-eyed Maestro Asanpur would lead him back into the private room, and she would rise from her table to greet him. She’d have the books ready, the accounting made. She imagined him as an old man with fierce eyes and wide hands.

  He would look over her statements, her contracts, and his expression would soften. The confusion and rage would wash away, leaving admiration behind. Had she really done so well with the bank’s money? Had she really saved it all, and more besides? In the darkness, she practiced raising her eyebrow just so.

  “It was nothing,” she said, softly but aloud.

  She would take the box from beneath her chair with her annual report and her contribution to the holding company. He would look it over, nodding. And then, when everything had been made whole, only then would she bring out the agreement with the governor of Porte Oliva, and hand over the keys to the southern trade. She imagined his hands trembling as he saw the brilliance of all she’d done. A half-breed girl with no parents, and she had managed this. But only, she’d say, only if my branch is accepted.

  “The Porte Oliva bank is mine,” she said, and then in the low, rough voice of her imaginary auditor, “Of course, Magistra.”

  She grinned. It was a pretty thought. And truly, why not? She’d been the one who kept the wealth of Vanai from being captured by the city’s prince or the Anteans. She’d been the one to protect it. Once she’d proven that she could manage the bank, why wouldn’t the holding company leave her in place? She’d have earned her bank and the life that went with it. The auditor would see that. Komme Medean would see it. She could do this.

  Some tiny, invisible insect crawled over her hand and she brushed it away. Her rival and lover muttered something, shifting. She smiled at his sleeping back, the rough texture of his skin. She would be almost sorry to beat him out. But only almost.

  As if from a previous life, Yardem Hane’s landslide of a voice spoke in her memory. There’s no such thing as a woman’s natural weapon. She saw now that it wasn’t true.

  When she slipped out of bed, he didn’t stir. In the darkness, her clothes were lost somewhere in a tangle on the brickwork floor. She didn’t want to risk waking him, so when she found the tunic he’d tossed aside, she pulled it over her head. It reached as far as her thighs. Close enough. She trotted to the corner of the room, her fingers brushing the floor until she found it: a leather thong
and brass key that Qahuar Em always wore next to his skin.

  Well. Almost always.

  The bricks were cool against the soles of her feet, and the sound of her footsteps was as near to silence as made no distinction. The compound was near the port, the rooms small and close, but arrayed around a small courtyard garden. The four servants were full-blooded Jasuru, and of them, only the door slave stayed in his place through the night. Qahuar Em might be the voice of a great Lyoneian clan, but space was expensive in Porte Oliva, and having a more lavish home than the local nobles was a kind of boasting that would serve him poorly. Cithrin turned a corner in the darkness and counted three doors on her left. The third was oak bound in iron. She found the keyhole and carefully put the stolen key in. When she turned it, the clack of the mechanism sounded as loud as a shout. Her heart raced, but no one raised the alarm. She opened the door and slipped into Qahuar’s private office.

  The shutters were closed and barred, but once she’d undone them, the light of the quarter moon was enough to make out the general shapes of things. There was a writing desk. A strongbox bolted to the floor. A latticework holder, filled with scrolls and folded letters. A hooded lantern with rings of carved flint and worked steel on a string. Cithrin struck sparks to the wick, then quickly closed and barred the shutters. What had been shadows and silhouettes sprang to life in shades of dim orange and grey. The strongbox was locked, and the key to the office wouldn’t fit it. The writing desk was bare apart from a thumb-sized bottle of green ink and a metal stylus. She went to the scrolls and letters, moving quickly, methodically from one to the next, being sure to keep each stack in order and put them back precisely as they were.

  She was aware of the anxiety pressing at her gut and the rapid beat of her heart, and she pushed it all aside. She would let herself feel again later, when there was time. A letter from the governor thanking Qahuar for his gift. The chocolate had been exquisite, and the governor’s wife especially extended her gratitude. Cithrin put the letter back. An unfurled scroll listed the names and relationships of several dozen people, none of whom meant anything to her. She put it back.