The Tyrant's Law

Geder




The mysterious letters found Geder halfway to the estate of Lord Annerin, four sheets, three of them written in different hands. The night after they’d come, Lord Regent Palliako had given the hunt to Prince Aster, taken his closest advisors—Flor, Emming, Daskellin, Mecilli, and Minister Basrahip—in the fastest carriages in the caravan, and sped for the south without word or explanation. It would be the scandal of the season. He’d shown no one what the letters said, he’d explained himself to no one, though for different reasons. He didn’t care. He didn’t care what they said about him.

Except that wasn’t true. It wasn’t the hard beds that kept him awake at night. It wasn’t the loss of comforts or the soft music he’d been able to command in the Kingspire. What kept Geder in motion was embarrassment that he had ever trusted these high and mighty lords, and rage. Well, soon enough, the truth would be revealed. Soon enough.

They left before dawn and rode until after nightfall. At each wayhouse and taproom, they traded their blown teams for fresh and began again as soon as the horses were in harness. Lord Emming complained, but Geder had pointed out that the sword-and-bows they’d brought were all his own personal guard, and if Lord Emming preferred not to travel, they could raise a cairn over him with relative ease. There hadn’t been any more complaints after that.

They rode through the free city of Orsen like a plague wind and made their way through the pass into Elassae despite snow and ice. The locals all told them that the danger was too great, but Geder ordered them on. They lost three men and two pack mules, but after five days of painfully slow progress, they reached the southern slopes. The dragon’s road cleared, and they began the last leg of their journey.

The fortress of Kiaria was cut deep into the living stone of the mountains. The brass gates to the first wall stood two hundred feet high and moved on gigantic mechanisms that had lain deep within the walls since the dragons. They stood broken now, the testament to almost a full season of Antean power. The only testament, because the second wall stood intact, and the third and fourth and fifth ones beyond that. At the base of the mountains on either side of the great gates was the Antean army. Geder’s army. The ground all around was a churn of ice, snow, mud, and shit. Hide tents fluttered in the wind that came down the mountain, and where there had been trees to break its power a year ago, there were only stumps now. Everything that would burn had been burned. Everything that could be eaten had been eaten. The army, according to the reports, needed three tons of food a day to stay alive, all of it coming overland from Suddapal and Inentai. Three tons of food every day for months turned to three tons of shit by the morning. The glory and power of Antea was living in its own latrine while the Timzinae sat in their caves and laughed.

And the man responsible for the war, the man whom Geder had already had to correct once, squatted in his tent scratching his balls and plotting treachery. The night before they reached the Lord Marshal’s encampment, Geder could hardly sleep.

When the sentries tried to stop them, Geder made them bow down until their noses touched their knees and stay in that position still as stones until he’d ridden past. Lord Ternigan’s tent looked much the worse for wear. Dark marks along the sides showed where the leather was starting to break down from the pressures of sun, rain, and wind. The Lord Marshal stood before the doorway in his dress armor, his own guards arrayed about him. The months had treated him no more gently than his tent. Ternigan’s beard was greyer than it had been in the summer, his cheeks thinner. He watched the carriages arrive one after the next until the open space before his tent was as cramped with the transportation of power as a revel at the height of the court season. Geder’s servants opened his carriage door and helped him down the steps and into the filth.

“My Lord Regent,” Ternigan said, then coughed wetly. “Once again, I am honored that you have chosen—”

“Shut up,” Geder said. “Get into the tent.”

Ternigan blinked and grew a shade paler. His gaze darted around, settling at last on Lord Mecilli and, Geder thought, relaxing a degree. Sighting an ally in dangerous times. If you knew the names of the men who’ve agreed, it would astound you. Geder had the sudden image of being in the tent only to find himself surrounded by his enemies. The guards themselves drawing knives to strike him down. Fear cut through the rage.

“Wait,” Geder said as Ternigan was about to enter the tent. “Stop. Minister Basrahip?”

The priest trundled slowly forward, making a jagged path between the still carriages. His expression was calm and serene. Behind him, two of his new initiates followed. When he reached Geder, he leaned close.

“Make sure my guards are still loyal to me. Can you do that?”

“Of course, Prince Geder,” the priest said, then turned to his initiates and motioned them close. They stood outside while Basrahip went to each of the guards, and then came back. Geder felt more and more self-conscious as the pause grew longer. Daskellin, Flor, Emming, and Mecilli all stood in a clump looking cold and uneasy. At last, Basrahip finished his round and came back to Geder’s side.

“They remain loyal to you,” Basrahip said.

“Good. Thank you,” Geder said quietly. Then, in his full voice, “Captain, disarm these men.”

Ternigan started, his mouth working quietly. Of the others, Daskellin and Flor seemed confused, but not alarmed. Emming appeared to hover on the margin between outrage and fear. And Mecilli … Geder couldn’t tell what was in Mecilli’s expression. Dispproval, perhaps. Or perhaps a kind of cold calculation. The great men of the empire had their swords and daggers taken from them. And then, Ternigan in the lead and the others behind him, they went into the tent. Then four of Geder’s guardsmen, and Geder, and Basrahip last.

When picturing the confrontation, he hadn’t really taken into account the size of Ternigan’s tent and how it related to the number of people who would actually be present. The camp tent was large for a man alone, or even a small group of advisors. With Geder and all of his council and the priests and the guards the proceedings had a vaguely comedic aspect that left him feeling even more ridiculous now than he had outside. Geder felt the rage that had fueled him all the way from Antea begin to falter in these last moments, and he hated it.

“Lord Ternigan? Lord Mecilli? Will you please stand here before me?”

Mecilli stepped forward, and then a heartbeat later, Ternigan followed his lead. Geder nodded and drew the letters from his wallet. Mecilli looked at the pages with curiosity, but Ternigan blanched.

“These little missives,” Geder said, “came into my possession. They purport to be correspondence between the two of you. Mecilli, take this.”

Mecilli accepted the page and read it slowly. After a few moments, his eyebrows rose and his face grew pale and waxen. Behind him, near the farther wall of the tent, Basrahip made his way through the press of men to take a position where Geder could see him.

“Lord Mecilli?” Geder said, letting the syllables roll gently through his mouth, willing himself back to the feelings of anger and righteousness that he’d let slip. “Do you recognize this letter?”

“No, Lord Regent. I have never seen this before.”

The tent was silent for a long moment, and then, to Geder’s surprise and horror, Basrahip nodded. Mecilli was speaking the truth.

“You didn’t write this?”

“No.”

Geder felt a lump growing in his throat. He’d pulled them halfway across the country for almost weeks for nothing. It had been a hoax. They would all go back to Antea with stories of how someone had made a joke of Geder Palliako.

“Did you write something similar to it?”

“No.”

“Are you part of a conspiracy against me?”

“I am not.”

With every reply, Mecilli’s voice grew calmer, firmer, and more certain. And at the tent’s rear wall, Basrahip certified each of them true. The goddess held her hand over Mecilli’s head and exonerated him. The press of bodies and the thickness of twice-breathed air called forth sweat and a lightheadedness that felt like being sick. He’d been tricked. He’d been made fun of. All of the signs and signals between the men had been figments of his fevered imagination. Somewhere, the true author of the letters was laughing.

With a sense of dread, he held out the letter that pretended to come from Ternigan.

“Lord Ternigan, did you write this letter?”

“No, Lord Regent,” Ternigan said, his voice calm and vaguely pitying.

Basrahip shook his head. No. That was not true. Geder took in a deep breath of air and let it out slowly. The anger felt like relief. Like being saved.

“Say that again,” Geder said. “Tell me that you didn’t write that letter.”

Ternigan’s eyes fluttered and he glanced at Mecilli.

“I misspoke, Lord Regent. I did write that letter, but not for the reasons it might seem. My intention was to discover whether any such conspiracy actually existed.”

Basrahip scowled, and Geder understood the problem.

“One question at time, Lord Marshal. Did you write this letter?”

“I did.”

“Did you write it in hopes of taking the regency for yourself.”

“No,” Ternigan said. “Never that.”

The faintest ghost of a smile touched the corners of Basrahip’s mouth. He shook his head. No, that was not true. Geder’s anger came back in its full glory now. He smiled.

“Lord Ternigan? Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No.”

“Do you think you can lie to me?”

“I would never lie to you,” Ternigan said, and tried to take a step back, but Daskellin and one of the guardsmen were already in the space. Ternigan turned, looking for a path through the men to the door. Or a wall that could be pushed through. Escape.

“Have you called me a buffoon, my lord?”

“No!” Ternigan cried, but it was beyond all doubt. Geder spat on Ternigan’s feet. Here was the great Lord Ternigan, war hero of Antea, cowering like a child before his angry father. Here was the man who’d thought Geder was laughable and small and stupid enough that he could wrest the throne from him. That the instigator had falsely claimed to be Mecilli didn’t signify. Geder knew the truth of the betrayal from Ternigan’s own living voice. That was more than enough.

“Lord Ternigan,” Geder said. “I am removing you from your position as Lord Marshal of Antea.”

“Y-yes, my lord. As you wish it.”

“Yes,” Geder said. “As I wish it. Lord Daskellin? Are you involved in a conspiracy against me?”

“No, my lord.” It was true.

“My lord Flor? Are you?”

“No.” True.

“Lord Emming? Are you involved in a conspiracy against me?”

“I am not.” True.

Geder cracked his knuckles.

“My lords, I hereby name Lord Ternigan traitor against the Severed Throne and against my person as Lord Regent.”

“No!” Ternigan cried. “You have been misled, Lord Palliako! This is a conspiracy against me!”

“Guards, please escort the traitor outside.”

Ternigan struggled, but he had no weapons and no one to take his side. The guardsmen hauled him roughly out of the tent and sent him sprawling in the mud outside. Geder walked after him, the warmth of certainty and fury making him twice his height. His fists clenched and unclenched. The others came out behind him, one by one, until everyone from the tent stood in a rough circle. The guards hauled Ternigan to his knees.

“I demand a trial,” Ternigan said through a mouthful of mud. “I demand trial by combat. God knows I am innocent.”

“No,” Geder said. “He doesn’t. Captain. Your men should draw blades now.”

The captain gave the order, and the sound of a dozen swords clearing their sheaths filled the air. The sunlight glimmered on bare metal.

“This,” Ternigan said. “This is an injustice.”

“No. It isn’t,” Geder said. And then, “So. Who’s the buffoon now?”

Ternigan died quickly, the last of his blood spilling into the muck outside his tent. Geder watched him die with a sense of growing satisfaction. He wasn’t going to vomit this time. He was going to maintain his dignity. All around him, Lord Ternigan’s men stood slack-jawed and shocked. The wind made a soft whuffling sound like the noise of sails on a ship.

Canl Daskellin was the first to speak.

“There will need to be a new Lord Marshal. And quickly. The men are going to be disheartened by … by Lord Ternigan’s duplicity.”

“He was corrupted,” Basrahip said. “Turned against you, Prince Geder.”

“The Timzinae,” Geder said. “It’s their desperation.”

“As you say, Prince Geder,” Basrahip said mournfully.

“If you would like,” Daskellin said, “I can draw up a list of men who would make good generals for the kingdom, and we can—”

“No,” Geder said, rounding on him. “No. I am done with giving power over to generals and counselors and great men. Do you see what’s happened when I’ve done that? They turn. They all turn. I don’t want any more generals.”

His chest was working like a bellows, and his face felt hot even in the winter wind. Canl Daskellin nodded as if what he’d said made perfect sense, then paused and held out his open hand, the palm up like he was offering something.

“What do you want?” he asked, and his voice was gentle, calm, and polite. To judge from it, they might have been sitting leather couches in the Fraternity of the Great Bear rather than standing over the corpse of the Lord Marshal in the mud of a half-conquered battlefield. “If not generals to lead the armies or counselors, then who do you want?”

A friend, Geder thought. I want a friend.

Are you certain you won’t come with us?” Daskellin asked. “There is still time to catch up with the hunt if we join them at Masonhalm.”

“No,” Geder said. “You go on ahead. I’ll join you before the hunt’s over. Only not yet.”

Night made the gates of Kiaria more foreboding. The few fires that guttered in the camps seemed small in the face of the mountain that loomed above them, and the sky that rose above that. A half moon spilled its milky light over the valley. Dragons had been here once. Had fought here. Had built a massive fortress against each other that now the last remnant of their race had fled to. It made sense if the Timzinae truly weren’t humans that they would fall back to the old defenses, the old strategies. It was the size of the thing that overwhelmed him. The war between the goddess and the dragons stretched back farther than history, and now he was supposed to end it. He was surrounded by false friends and duplicity, conspiracy and violence, and he was the one who was going to lead the world to peace? It seemed impossible.

But still, he had to try. What would they say about him if he didn’t?

“This is still hostile country,” Daskellin said.

“I have guards.”

“Guards can be overwhelmed,” Daskellin said. “If you must go south, take a real force of soldiers with you.”

“They have to keep the siege.”

“There’s enough,” Daskellin said. “Nothing of substance is going to happen here before the new Lord Marshal comes.”

Geder leaned back in his chair. A falling star streaked through the sky, bloomed briefly, and was gone. A servant came and quietly spirited away the remnants of their dinner.

“All right,” Geder said. “If it will make you happy.”

“Thank you,” Daskellin said. “Who do you think sent those letters?”

“I don’t know,” Geder said. “But whoever it was, they didn’t have to. It’s something to have an ally, even if I don’t know who they are as yet.”

“Well. That’s one way to look at it, I suppose,” Daskellin said.

Geder felt the urge to ask what he meant by that, but the effort seemed too much. The violence of the day was weighing on him, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Or not easily, at least.

“I think it’s time I retire for the night,” Geder said, drawing himself up. His fingers were numb and his nose was running from the chill. And the army had been keeping its place out here for months. Geder knew it was uncharitable of him, but he couldn’t help being grateful that he got to leave while they stayed on. But at least the cold had frozen the mud. He took a few steps, then paused and looked back.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You are always welcome,” Daskellin said. “Would it be rude to ask what exactly you were thanking me for?”

Geder shrugged.

“Not betraying me, I suppose.”

Inside the warmth and comfort of the tent that had recently been Ternigan’s, Geder called for paper and pen and sent for a courier. The servants brought him blankets and pillows and a butter lamp with a tall flame that filled the room with the scent of smoke. For a long time, he stared at the page, uncertain how to proceed.

Cithrin—

I know you have not written back to me, and I understand. You’re busy, and I am too. But I am weary, my love. I am tired to my bones, and I find I need the company of someone who cares for me. Someone I can trust. I am writing you now from the siege camp at Kiaria, but in the morning I will begin on my way south to Suddapal and, my dear, to you.





Cithrin




Neither Komme Medean nor Pyk Usterhall made any mention of Isadau or of the steady stream of refugees that Cithrin helped flee from Suddapal. The only overt sign that anything about the operations of the bank had changed was the name to which the bank reports were addressed. Without any formal acknowledgment, they simply began to act as if Cithrin were the voice of the Medean bank in Suddapal, and so it became true. It was like a cunning man turning water to wine or a stone to an orange. She was transformed by the act of their collective will.

Still, there were some details in the ciphered reports that carried more implications than others. Pyk Usterhall’s report listed a significant capital outlay for commiserative gifts, which technically meant additional payments from insurance policies that covered deaths but was also the common euphemism for bribes. Komme also recommended that all branches call in loans made to the Free Cities, Borja, and Northcoast, and that they avoid making any loans into those territories without extraordinary returns. Cithrin didn’t know whether the lives of people displaced by war fell under the heading of extraordinary returns, but thought they might.

From a financial perspective, her own reports back were the collapse of an incompetent. The branch was losing money like a slaughterhouse pig bled. Ships hired for unspecified cargo. Caravan masters employed for half a dozen off-season trips into the Keshet. Cithrin gave out loans on almost any pretext with expectation of repayment to other branches and no way to track the borrower.

Which is to say that the bank’s mechanism had reversed. What had been an engine designed for the accumulation of wealth had become a system for wealth’s application. She could imagine herself as some sort of half-divine fairy changing the world where she wished to by the careful dispensation of gold and silver, contracts and letters of credit. The difference she made was measured not in weights of precious metal, but in some number of lives and in children living outside of prisons. And she could go on with this until the coffers ran dry, and even past that, working on deficit until even the reputation of the Medean bank wasn’t enough to keep her boards from being broken.

Some nights, she would stay up late and try to calculate her efficiency. How many hundred refugees had fled danger under her watch, and how much she had spent to do it. It occurred to her more than once that the Antean Empire had placed a low price on Timzinae lives, and that she had been the one in position to buy. Those were the best nights. The worst, she thought of other things.

The logic of the world had been inverted. Cheap lives were good. Money was there to be lost. Even the opportunities that came to her were suspect.

I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Cithrin said, shaking her head at the list of names on the page before her. “Look at these. Tamar Sol. She’s that old woman who lives beside the trading house, isn’t she?”

“I believe so,” Yardem said.

“What could she plausibly be doing for the bank? Darning our socks? And this one—Witan Adada? He’s the one with the missing leg who begs at that taproom.”

Yardem sat on the divan, nodding, his ears canted forward and his hands clasped on his knees.

“Many of them are vulnerable people,” he said. “Isn’t that what we’re here for? To extend the protection we have to as many people as we can?”

“Our privilege isn’t built on stone,” Cithrin said. “When we give this list to the protector, it will be a list of people immune to his authority. But it can turn into a list of people to be singled out for persecution without folding a corner. The bank is a protection as long as we’re in Geder’s good graces. I’d no more single Tamar Sol out to the protector than I’d point a wolf toward a baby. I won’t list anyone as working for me who isn’t willing to be killed because I did it.”

Yardem grunted.

“Not the best recruitment speech,” he said. “Let me take that back, and I’ll see what I can do about revising it.”

“I’m sorry,” Cithrin said, holding out the page.

“No reason to be,” the Tralgu said.

The report had come in the day before. Cithrin’s scheme for an anonymous bounty board appeared to be moving forward. Komme Medean had included a list of prices being offered for a variety of crimes against the sovereign powers of Antea, the escape of slaves, the death of soldiers from common sword-and-bows to nobles. There was even a massive reward listed for Geder’s death. They were reported as rumors with a request that all the branches reply with whatever similar schemes they were hearing of. Even if the letters went astray or Cithrin found herself being questioned by one of the tainted priests, she could truthfully say that she didn’t have knowledge of the bounties being offered by the bank or anyone else in particular. Komme’s reports said that the prizes were to be collected in Herez from a shadowy figure named Callon Cane, and she could truthfully say that was all she knew for certain. She was cultivating her own ignorance. It was just another way in which the normal logic of her world had been reversed.

Yardem walked out to the compound’s central yard, and she accompanied him. The compound was still full of the refugees and guests that Isadau had welcomed in, or else the ones who had taken their place. There were men and women and children. The stables were empty, though. The grass on which the horses had grazed was brown and dry. There was less music than there had been when the buildings had been a home for Isadau and her family. It made the place seem empty, even though it was full.

The sky was pale and strangely opalescent, and the wind carried the threat of storm without the promise of release. Yardem walked off to speak with Enen and the other house guards, leaving Cithrin to make her way out to the gate and the street. Suddapal was not her city. However long she stayed, the roads would always feel a bit too wide, the land a bit too open. She missed glazed windows and negotiations conducted in private. And still, she would have paved the seafront in silver if it would protect the people there.

She saw the protector’s men coming along the street, dark uniforms marching in a square. Not quite a threat of violence, but ready for it at any moment. And in the center of the square, the brown robes of the priest. She felt the dread in her gut, but only waited for them patiently. They might not be coming for her.

They were coming for her.

“Magistra bel Sarcour,” the priest said, bowing slightly. “I hope the day is treating you kindly.”

“It will do, I suppose,” Cithrin said through her smile. “Unless you have another one on offer?”

The priest smiled back uneasily. She’d spoken with him three or four times now. Less than she’d expected, since she’d made herself one of the more important people in the city. She couldn’t help wondering if Fallon Broot was keeping them apart out of his own unease with the priesthood. She had noticed that the friendly nonsense of banter seemed to bother the priest, so she employed it liberally.

“There was a fire last night,” the priest said.

“I didn’t know that,” Cithrin said, telling the truth.

“It was near the prison. While the protector’s men were dealing with it, someone threw a rope ladder over the back wall and almost seventy prisoners escaped.”

“Really?” Cithrin said.

“Several were the children of people in the employ of your bank.”

“And I’d imagine several weren’t,” Cithrin said. “Any in any case, it wasn’t anything the bank had a hand in, so I don’t believe I can help you with that.”

The priest tilted his head and bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet in a way that made him look like a sparrow.

“You don’t want to know which of your employees’ children were part of the attack?”

“I don’t,” Cithrin said. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask about, or shall I return to my business?”

The priest held out a letter.

“A message came for you by military courier,” the priest said. “From the Lord Regent.”

“Oh,” Cithrin said. “Perhaps I mistook small talk for interrogation.”

She took the letter as if it were a normal thing, and not the chance that Geder had changed his mind about her and was about to have her thrown into prison. She kept her smile pleasant and her gaze locked on the priest’s. Making him look away first was a petty thing, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t be a politician in everything, and the man frightened her. She turned back to the compound. Later, she would need to go to the trading house and at least make some pretense at the normal business of the bank, but correspondence from Geder was her first priority. She went to her office and closed the doors. She put the letter down on the desk. The address on the outer fold was written in his hand. Twice, she reached toward it and pulled back. She put a book over it to keep it from blowing under a desk, went to the kitchen, and came back with a bottle of wine and no cup. The alcohol soothed the anxiety knotting her gut, and when she was a little over halfway through, she was ready to open the letter.

… I need the company of someone who cares for me … I will begin on my way south to Suddapal and, my dear, to you.

Remembering the peace that I took from your touch, from your body, has been the only thing that—

It was like a letter written between people she’d never met. It was love and sex and a kind of raw vulnerability. If she’d only happened upon it, she would have thought it was sweet and touching. She would have imagined the woman to whom it had been written and the man who’d put pen to paper, and she would have envied them. Only she was the woman, and the man was Geder Palliako. And worse than that, she could see where this unreal version of her had grown from. She remembered feeling fond of Geder, the frightened little man who was trying to protect the boy put in his charge. She remembered watching them working puzzles with complex stories about Drakkis Stormcrow and sleeping dragons. She remembered kissing him, and more than that, wanting to kiss him.

Only now he was coming here thinking that he was still the man he’d been that summer, and she was the woman he imagined her to be.

“Well,” she said, softly and to herself. “F*ck.”

The scratching at the door startled her back to herself. The last of the wine had gone, though she didn’t remember drinking it. There was more in the kitchens, and she badly wanted another bottle. The scratch came again.

“Come in,” she said, her words perfectly sharp. One bottle wasn’t enough to leave her drunk. Tonight, three might not suffice.

Enen opened the door. A Timzinae man she didn’t know was at the woman’s side. He wore the rough cotton of a dockworker.

“Someone asking to see you,” Enen said, her voice soft and gentle in a way that told Cithrin of the fear that had brought this man, whoever he was, to her. Cithrin willed herself to sit up a little straighter. There was room enough in the chair for her and Geder’s lover; there would be enough for Magistra Cithrin bel Sarcour too.

“Come in,” she said.

The man stepped in. His nictitating membranes were clicking open and closed and he held his hands in fists tight against his sides.

“I’m sorry for bothering you,” he said. “Only I heard about you from Kitap, and I thought … I thought …”

“Kitap?” Cithrin said, and the man’s face fell. Then, “You mean Master Kit?”

“Yes. You might have called him that. He used to live with my family, back before he was anything in particular. My name’s Epetchi. Maybe he talked about me? Or Ela?”

“He may have,” Cithrin said. “Now that I think of it, he may have.” She didn’t remember him saying a thing, but she knew from someone that there had been a café run by friends of his down near the docks.

“He said you might be able to help people. That you were a good person. A friend.”

Cithrin smiled the way she did in any negotiation and nodded toward the divan.

“Tell me what’s going on, Epetchi,” she said.

His niece had been one of the children taken from the prison, only she’d been hurt in the flight. He was hiding her in his storeroom, but she had a fever and it was getting worse. He didn’t dare go for a cunning man for fear that they’d be turned in to the Anteans. As he explained himself, the high whine of anxiety faded from his voice and a deeper, lower kind of fear came in. One more like despair.

Cithirin listened carefully. The fumes of the wine faded quickly, and her mind danced over the problem. Epetchi was right, of course. The protector’s guard would be watching the cunning men. The priest would be questioning them and anyone else whose work it was to give aid to the desperate and in need. When he shrugged and went silent, she pressed her fingertips to her lips and thought.

“Come with me,” she said. He followed her out to the guard room. Yardem and Enen were both there.

“Yardem, do you know of any cunning men willing to die because I put them on a list?”

“Know one I could ask.”

“Do that,” Cithrin said. “Then get him to this man’s café. He’s a friend of Kit’s.”

“My sympathies,” Yardem said seriously, and then broke into a grin. Epetchi laughed.

“You know him too, then?”

Cithrin stepped back. Yardem would see to it now. She walked through the corridors, back to the kitchen for two more bottles, and then to her room. She’d done enough of her business for the day, and if she went there, she would only read the letter again. She didn’t want to do that.

The plant that Isadau had given her that first day still sat on her sill. Its small, thick needles hadn’t gone brown with the autumn. Cithrin sat on her bed and watched it quiver in the breeze. Another good night, then. Maybe another life saved. She wondered who had engineered the escape of the prisoners. It was reassuring to know that there were others in the city who were taking action, but it was not surprising. This was their home. These were their children. If the whip ever came to their hand, Geder’s soldiers would suffer and die, she didn’t have any doubt.

She wondered how much was enough. She had already managed an order of magnitude more than Isadau could have. She had immunity for the bank that no one else in the world could have acquired, and she’d used it as best she could. But she couldn’t say it was enough. Her own argument circled back. One more day would save another few people, and how could she tell herself that the ones she would have saved were less important than the ones she already had? And one more day after that, and after that, and after that until Geder came to her door expecting a lover to fall into his arms.

And then? What were the lives worth that she could still save after that? If she fell as she was expected to, if she became the woman the letters were for, how many more refugees could she spirit out of Suddapal?

It was an exchange, just as anything was. She could maintain her branch and its immunity. She could get information about the Antean army and the spider cult. And all it would mean was becoming Geder Palliako’s lover. She tried to imagine what it would be like, standing naked before him now that she knew he’d ordered the death of Vanai, now that she’d watched him slaughter a man, now that she’d lived in a city that had been broken by his will and the will of his priests. Unpleasant, yes, but her body was only a body. Access to it was something he wanted and that she was in a position to give. And what she would gain from it couldn’t be had for any other price. This wasn’t a new equation. She’d had the same essential decision with Sandr and with Qahuar Em. Once, it hadn’t been a good trade. Once, she’d thought it was and had been wrong. Neither of those had killed her heart.

The plant shivered. Cithrin pulled the cork from her bottle and sat with her back to the cool, rough wall. The taste of grapes and the bite of the alcohol were like old friends come to commiserate. Isadau would have died for her city, and Cithrin had bought her absence with a promise. A promise to save as much of Suddapal as she could. So in a sense, if she took up with Geder Palliako again, if she sat at his table and laughed at his jokes and permitted herself to be used by him in his bed, it would still be from love. Her love for Isadau. She drank from her bottle. She knew from long experience it would take at least one more for her to sleep tonight.

“Fine,” she said.





Marcus




The north coast of Hallskar in the depths of winter was a cold kind of hell. Marcus had known from stories he’d heard told by other mercenaries and wanderers that the storms could be vicious and sudden, that the land was harsh and unforgiving. He’d lived in Northcoast most of his boyhood, and the little cruelties of winter were nothing new to him.

He had underestimated.

“We’re all going to die!” Sandr wailed.

“Die walking, then,” Marcus shouted and leaned harder into the storm. Before them, the cart swayed in the wind. A layer of ice was forming on the left side, and Hornet had given up trying to break it off. The horses’ heads were low, their manes glazed as they pushed on. Marcus was more worried about them than about Sandr. If the actor collapsed, they could load him in with the costumes and the props. If the horses fell, they would have to stop. And if they stopped, the chances were good they wouldn’t start again.

The morning had been clear and cold enough to freeze piss when it hit the ground. The sky had given no particular sign of trouble until trouble descended. In the space of an hour, the day went from calm to blustery and from blustery to a howling gale. Dar Cinlama and the Antean expedition had been rumored to be just ahead of them somewhere along this road, but Marcus didn’t care about them any longer. Or about the spider goddess or anything other than the thought that freezing to death on a icy track in Hallskar wasn’t the way he’d hoped to die, but it also wasn’t the worst.

“Your turn,” someone said, but Marcus wasn’t sure who. He tried to blink but his eyes felt raw. Cary tugged at his shoulder again, pushing him toward the cart. “It’s your turn. Get in.”

“Right,” Marcus said. With numb blocks for arms and legs, he clambered up the back of the cart. The wind wasn’t so bad here, though the cold was cutting. There was frost on the costumes. He inched forward until he was nearly at the front. Kit sat on the bench, his body made nearly round by the cloaks, jackets, and blankets that wrapped him. Snow and ice were sticking to him like he was a stone.

“We have to find shelter,” Marcus shouted over the voice of the weather.

“Yes,” the snowball-lump that was Kit shouted back.

“Are you sure we’re still on the road?”

“No.”

Marcus paused for a moment, trying to think what he could do about that.

“All right,” he said. “I’m going to rest.”

“You should.”

Marcus turned back. A gust of wind shook the cart, and he felt the jarring when the wheel fell back to the ground. The tiny glass lamp that hung from the top of the folded stage didn’t go out, and he cupped it in his hands, letting the warmth of the little flame thaw his fingers. They were all taking turns resting in the cart except for Kit with the team and Smit who wouldn’t stop leading the two riding horses. It was only their second week out of Rukkyupal, and the fantasy Marcus had built of going from town to town putting plays on for the Haaverkin and uncovering hints about the whereabouts of Dar Cinlama was dead.

Someone shouted. Charlit Soon, Marcus thought, but it could have been Cary. He had the image of someone fallen in the snow and unable to rise. He fought the weariness, focusing his eyes, then went out to help them back up.

Only no one had fallen.

Charlit Soon was standing off to the side of the road, pointing out into the grey-white gloom of the world. Marcus fought his way toward her, slipped on the ice, and rose again. When he came close enough to hear individual words, she was shouting, “Light! There’s a light.”

And to Marcus’s amazement, there was. It was faint and inconsistent, but somewhere close, a fire was burning brightly enough to penetrate the storm. And Charlit was standing on a side track that seemed to lead toward it. They had very nearly walked right by it.

“Stay here,” he shouted. “I’ll get the others.”

It seemed to take hours to stop them all, to turn them, then find Charlit again and start off. The wind blew against their backs now, shoving them forward. And slowly, a darkness rose up before them: a massive structure of black wood logs woven one atop the other into a wall. More trees were laid over the top, and a load of snow as tall as all the rest towered above it, higher than clouds. A great pitch-stinking torch fluttered in the wind like a lighthouse in fog, and a thick wooden door stood beside it.

Marcus struggled forward and slammed a numb fist against the door, hoping that someone would answer him and planning how to break it down when they didn’t. The door swung open on a Haaverkin woman. Her vast body was covered in light wool and fur. Her face was complicated by swirling tattoos in red and blue, and her expression was like a mother whose child has just hauled home a basket of puppies.

“Who in hell are you people?” she asked.

“Marcus,” Marcus said. “Kit over there. Some others. Make plays. Wondering if we could come in.”

The woman sighed, shook her head, and turned to call over her shoulder.

“Kirot! We’ve got more idiots.” She turned back to Marcus. “I’m Ama of Order Murro. This is our lodge house. You there. Just leave the horses. We’ll get them. You’ll only cock it up.”

Marcus nodded, then stumbled past her into the warmth.

The lodge house was a single massive room with a fire burning in a stone grate at the far end. The air was sooty and thick. Great tables ran along the walls with benches made from split trees. The Haaverkin at the tables—twenty, perhaps thirty of them—turned to watch him with amusement and curiosity. Marcus raised a hand in greeting, but kept stumbling forward toward the light and the promise of warmth. As he drew near the flames, he saw thinner figures at the hearth. A half dozen Firstblood men, and a leather-skinned Dartinae man with eyes so bright it seemed like his head was hollow with firelight blazing through empty sockets.

Oh, Marcus thought, then collapsed on the furs and blankets before the fire, his body trembling from the cold and burning from the mild heat that radiated out from the flames. Sandr crawled up beside him, and then Kit and Cary and Hornet. Charlit Soon and Smit and Mikel. They curled together like animals in some deep winter den. Marcus heard someone weeping, but was fairly certain it wasn’t him.

A massive old Haaverkin loomed above him. The ink of his tattoos and the lines of his face swam together in a complexity that Marcus couldn’t follow. His teeth were the grey of stone, and the rolls of fat that enveloped his body made him seem larger than he was. And strong. A bone pipe appeared in his hand.

“What’s your name, then?”

Marcus didn’t have the wits left to lie. “Marcus Wester.”

“And these others? They’re yours?”

“They’re mine,” Marcus agreed.

“Well, then, Marcus Wester and his brood. Kirot of Order Murro is my name, and this is the lodge house of Order Murro. We extend you our hospitality because if we didn’t, you’d die out in the weather like a bunch of f*cking half-wits.”

“Thank you for that.”

“Don’t mention it,” the old Haaverkin said sourly and marched off into the gloom shaking his head at the fragility and dim wits of southern races.

“You know there’s a mercenary captain with that same name,” a pleasantly raspy voice said. Marcus levered himself up to sitting. The Dartinae man had come to sit near to him, legs more tied together than crossed. If Marcus had taken the same pose, he’d have popped his knees loose, but Dartinae were usually a bit more supple than the other races.

“Did, actually,” Marcus said.

“You get mistaken for him?”

The man wore a leather vest with a dragon on it in faded and cracking paint.

“Almost constantly,” Marcus said. His senses were almost back, but not quite. He felt drunk from the cold and his toes were still numb. Soon he’d have to pull his boots off and check for frostbite, but his fingers hadn’t blackened, so maybe he’d avoided the worst of it. “And you, cousin? What’s your story?”

“Dar Cinlama,” the man said, dispelling the last remnant of doubt. “Citizen of the world, but lately from the court of the Lord Regent in Camnipol.”

“You must have pissed him off badly for him to send you out here.”

Dar laughed. “No, this is where I picked to be. Searching for hidden things in the lost corners of the world.”

“Seems you’ve come to the right place.” Marcus looked over at the Firstblood men sitting apart at the near table. There was no mistaking them for anything but Firstblood, but though their skins were the full range from pale to dark, none had the wiry hair or brown robes of a spider priest. “Those yours?” he asked, nodding to them.

“I have the loan of them. Not a bad bunch. More than I’ve usually had for company.”

Cary groaned and curled away from their voices. Sandr appeared to be asleep, snoring lightly, his face as slack as a child’s. Marcus’s awareness was still broadening slowly. Along the walls, he saw the Haaverkin shields and spears interspersed with images of dragons and the skeleton of a monstrous fish, its head twice as wide as a man’s shoulders, with three rows of viciously curved teeth. The Haaverkin in the room were ignoring them, talking among themselves, laughing or scowling. Even though Marcus couldn’t feel the wind, and the fire in the grate drew steady and calm, the rage of the storm outside was oppressive as a hand on his shoulder.

Kit stirred, rising from the rugs. His expression was mild and amazed, as if he thought perhaps he’d died and this was where souls went to wait for judgment.

“Kit,” Marcus said. “This is our new friend. His name’s Dar Cinlama.”

Kit’s eyes took a moment to focus, but then comprehension slipped into them.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Dar,” Kit said.

“And what brings you to the warm hearth and happy home of our northern brothers?”

“We are a theater company,” Kit said. “Seeking new audiences.”

“Well,” Dar Cinlama said, “this is a place to find them. This is likely the most Firstblood any of these orders have seen in years.”

“And perhaps the last,” Kit said. “I can’t say we’ve found quite as many audiences as we’d hoped.”

“Should have come in summer,” Dar Cinlama said. “Bugs the size of your fist trying to drink you dry, but at least the sky isn’t trying to kill you.”

“Been here since then, have you?” Marcus asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Yes, I have,” Dar Cinlama said, “and likely I’ll be coming back next summer. But once the weather clears, we’re going down to Borja. Winter in Tauendak or Lôdi.”

At the far end of the lodge house, the door opened, and the woman who’d saved them from the cold came back in. From a distance, her cloak looked no heavier than something Marcus might have worn on a cool day in spring. She brushed the snow and ice out of her hair and walked over to Kirot. As they bent their heads together in conversation, the draft of cold air finally reached them, and Marcus shuddered.

“I think we may follow your lead,” Kit said. “We were thinking of following the King’s Hunt in Antea, but the company has been there a little too long, and we chose to come here.”

“Bad, bad decision,” Sandr said weakly, so maybe he wasn’t asleep after all.

“Is your work in the north finished as well?” Kit asked, and Marcus could feel the edge in the question. He couldn’t help feeling a small thrill of excitement.

“Work’s never finished,” Dar Cinlama said expansively. “The world’s too big and too old for that. I was following the story that a giant was buried in the north with a sword of flame that could slaughter armies.”

“Really?” Marcus said.

“There’s really a story,” Dar Cinlama said. “And maybe there’s a giant and a sword to go with it, but we haven’t found it yet. I’ve found other hints. Part of it mentions a lake where the stars come to die, and I’ve found an inlet about three days from here where the fish take on a glow. Get a whole school of them, and it could be what the story meant.”

At the far end of the lodge, Kirot nodded his head once sharply, then started coming down toward them. Marcus watched him without seeming to. Better for now if Kit could pull information from the Dartinae without interruption, but that was looking unlikely.

“That’s what you do, then?” Kit asked. “Find old stories and match them to bits of landscape?”

“It’s part,” the Dartinae said. “I’ll chase rumors and old tales, or I’ll just head off to places where no one looks and look there. Can’t know what you’ll find.”

“That’s truth,” Marcus said. Kirot was almost upon them. “No luck this time, though?”

“There were a few times I thought we were close. Old stories that made it seem like we were close to something, but nothing came of it. Next time, I’m going further inland. Takynpal. maybe.”

Kirot loomed up behind.

“We put your cart and your horses in the deep stables,” he said to Marcus. “Tradition is you give the host a gift for our kindness. We were thinking one of the horses would be good.”

“Seems fair,” Marcus said.

“Do you truly think there is something to be found?” Kit said, his attention still on the adventurer.

“There’s not,” Kirot said. “No such thing as giants, much less magical fire swords.”

Kit’s eyebrows rose and his head shifted up to Kirot.

“No?” the old actor said, his voice all innocence.

“Not a goddam thing,” Kirot said. “Only thing that comes of your kind coming up to Hallskar is a fat load of bones when the drifts melt.”

“There are always secrets waiting to be found,” Dar Cinlama said, sounding wounded.

“Not here there aren’t,” Kirot said. “But you go on killing yourself trying to chase whatever it is down. We’ll keep your things safe once you’re dead.”

The old Haaverkin turned and trundled away, puffing at his pipe.

“Kirot’s bad-tempered,” Dar Cinlama said, “but harmless if you don’t cross him. Seems like that’s the way for all the Orders. Sour. Your people should come with me. When the storm breaks we can all go down to Borja together. Lôdi’s a real city. You’ll draw real crowds there.”

“I think we’ll stay a bit,” Kit said. “We’ve only just come here after all. You should go on without us.”

The Dartinae shrugged. “Your choice. If you’re warm enough now, you should ask old Kirot for some soup and beer. You’re paying a horse for it.”

“Cheap at the price,” Marcus said.

The evening was spent talking with the Antean men and bringing the players back to themselves. Once they were recovered, Sandr and Kit put on a mock poetry competition that drew a bit of a crowd. Marcus sat by the fire drinking his beer and watching. The Haaverkin laughed at different times than Marcus expected them to, and watching Sandr and Kit respond to that, shaping their performance as they went, had a kind of beauty to it. Dar Cinlama, apart from being a little more impressed with himself than Marcus was with him, seemed a decent man. Eventually the fire burned low and the Haaverkin started bedding down on the floor of the lodge house. Dar Cinlama and the Anteans did the same, and before long the players were also in a little group, curled up under blankets together for warmth and comfort in strange surroundings. With the voices all gone quiet, Marcus could hear the storm still shrieking and ripping at the walls of the place. The glow of the embers and low flames in the great hearth threw ruddy shadows across the ceiling and along the walls.

He waited until he was almost certain that the others were asleep, then took himself through a short passage to a latrine that had been hacked out of the frozen ground. When he came back, rather than pulling the blankets over himself, he went to find Kit. As he’d expected, Kit’s eyes were open and bright.

“Well,” Marcus said. “Seems our friend may not have found the thing he was looking for.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Kit said. “And more, I think he’s close to giving up the chase. At least so far as this part of the world goes.”

“Think he’s wise in that?”

“No,” Kit said, his voice so low it was hardly audible even inches from his lips. “No, I think he’s being kept from it. Kirot was lying when he said there was nothing to be found here.”

“Seems we’ve sung that song before,” Marcus said. “Are you up for another verse?”

“Give us a week in Kirot’s company, and I think I can manage something.”

“Good that we have the powers of chaos and madness on our side sometimes. Still, I don’t know what we’re going to do with another damned magic sword.”

Cary muttered something, turned and stretched out one leg toward the dying fire.

“It isn’t a sword,” Kit said. “And it isn’t a giant.”

“What, then?”

“I don’t know,” Kit said, his eyes bright and merry. “But I believe I can find out.”





Cithrin




Cithrin lay in bed, her eyes focused on the ceiling. Focused on nothing. The pale ceiling looked blankly back down. The cracks in its plaster made shapes and faces. The pillow was too warm or else too cold. Another night without sleep. What did she need it for, anyway?

At last she pulled herself up and went through a rough parody of her morning ablutions. When she came out into the corridor, she was as nearly herself as she was likely to become. And in truth, very few people if anyone would notice how poorly she felt. It was the advantage of living a life of professional deceit that she could choose how much to show and how much to keep to herself. It was one of her primary skills. No one would see how she felt. Or that, at least, was the thought.

“You all right, Magistra?” Enen asked as soon as Cithrin stepped into the dining room. The smell of eggs and fish and peppers assaulted Cithrin’s nose, but she didn’t gag.

“Fine,” she said, sitting across from the Kurtadam woman. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

“Anticipating the Lord Regent’s arrival.”

Cithrin’s smile felt painted on and chipped at the edges.

“I suppose I am,” she said amiably.

The runners said that Palliako was still a day and a half away, and on the march. He was being accompanied by three hundred sword-and-bows detached from the siege at Kiaria for the sole purpose of seeing that he arrived safely on her doorstep. She didn’t know whether to feel flattered. Every day since she’d had Geder’s letter from Kiaria had been a little harder than the one before, but she told herself that once he had arrived and she could fall into the role she’d prepared for herself, it would be better.

“Where’s Yardem?” Cithrin asked, more as a way to postpone getting food than from any genuine curiosity.

“Off doing a little last-minute work,” Enen said. “Making the rounds of all the people we’ve worked with to let them know not to expect anything from us for a time at least. We figured that with the extra soldiery and Palliako himself and his priests lurking in the doorway, it’d be better to wrap up any outstanding business.”

“Probably true,” Cithrin said. It was the kind of thing that she should have thought. There were enough times in her past for her to know when she was drinking too much, and she was drinking too much. The knowledge made her feel slightly more in control of things, though it wasn’t going to have any particular effect on her actions. She would go right on drinking too much.

When her body finally felt it could stand the idea of food, she ate a sliced apple in cream and drank a cup of coffee, and afterward, she kept it down. She felt an unwarranted pride. She was the voice of the Medean bank in two cities. She was responsible for saving hundreds if not thousands of Timzinae from the occupation. And as her crowning glory, she didn’t puke up her food like a newborn babe.

There were fewer guests in the compound now. The courtyards were empty. The quarters where refugees had slept and eaten and talked and led their lives were abandoned, with only their old straw mattresses and rag-worn clothes left behind. The day before had been taken up with that.

She’d dreaded going to all the refugees who had accreted around the compound and asking them to leave. She knew as well as they did that there was no place to go, and so she’d expected grief and recrimination. Not her best prediction, since for the most part she got as far as explaining that the Lord Regent of Antea and a force of soldiers protecting him were very likely to come to the compound. Almost before she’d finished the last syllable, they were packing up their meager belongings and their confused children and heading out into the winter. They might die of cold in the streets. They might try walking to the Keshet or Orsen without food or water enough to make it two days. Cithrin wished she could go with them.

The only solace she had was the books. Reviewing her ledgers and logs distracted her a bit from what was going to happen next. Something about the flow of income and expenditure soothed her in any case, but now it was also her justification. Leaning heavily on her desk, she could trace her fingers down all the work she’d done in Suddapal. Here were the payments she’d made to the ship captains who’d stolen away with a hold filled with humanity instead of cargo. Here were the reimbursements for drink and food that she’d granted to the men and women who’d agreed to seek out the taprooms and public spaces, moving from group to group and telling about the bounties available in Herez. Here were the loans she might as well have listed as gifts that were to be repaid at other branches. It was an account of all her sins against commerce and profit, and she took as much pride in it as she could.

She wished that Komme Medean were there. Or Paerin Clark. Someone she could talk with about her time commanding the branch. She thought it had all been the right thing, but what if there had been some better way to do the things she’d done, and some way to build on it moving ahead? Geder wouldn’t be able to stay in Suddapal forever. Perhaps he’d only come for a few days, and then go back to Antea and his court. Certainly it wouldn’t be longer than the winter. When he left, she would go back to her work. Unless he wanted her go with him. Would he insist? She imagined herself living in Camnipol, sleeping and eating in the Kingspire, and wondered what it would be like to leave the books and the bank behind. It seemed that it would leave very little room for her.

The compound of the Medean bank was also far from the only place in the city preparing itself for the arrival of its master. The protector’s guards were driving teams of enslaved Timzinae through the streets, cleaning away the winter-killed plants and paving roads that had never known stone. The houses and temples that had burned in the sack were finally being torn down or rebuilt. The few times that Cithrin went out into the city, she felt a sense of dislocation seeing the changes and improvements. It was as if the real city had been spirited away in the night and replaced with the Antean image of what Suddapal should be. It would have been comic if it hadn’t meant that the city as it had been was gone. That a thing once changed could only change again, and not live backward.

That afternoon she was in her room wearing a silk shift and trying on dresses in which she could meet Geder Palliako. A long-sleeved green velvet was her favorite at present, but there was a butter-yellow one with a more Antean cut that displayed her figure better, even though the color was fairly hideous. The scratch came at the doorway as she held the yellow to her chest and tried to decide whether there was a scarf she could add that forgave its failings.

“Come in,” she said, half aware that she wasn’t, strictly speaking, dressed and she didn’t know whom she’d just invited in. It wasn’t something she cared about.

Yardem entered. He was wearing leathers much like his training armor, only with touches of green at the throat and shoulders. Cithrin wondered what Geder would make of it if he arrived to find her encased in armor. The idea was almost funny.

“Magistra,” Yardem said. “How are you?”

“Debased and horrified,” she said lightly, making a joke of it. “And you?”

“Well enough. I needed to speak with you for a moment about the Lord Regent.”

“Speak away. But first, look at these. Which do you think would be the better one to wear when he comes?”

Yardem flicked a jingling ear and sat on the bed.

“Green,” he said. “It’s warmer. The Lord Regent’s forces will be here in the morning.”

“They will,” Cithrin said.

“The plan is you make yourself into Palliako’s bed slave.”

“I prefer the term consort,” Cithrin said, putting down the yellow and picking up the green. The color really was much better. Green it was, then.

“I’m going to ask you to reconsider.”

“What? You mean about Geder?”

“Yes.”

The Tralgu looked up at her. His dark eyes were unreadable. Cithrin felt a knot in her throat and coughed to clear it.

“I can’t,” she said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Yardem nodded, but his frown undercut the motion. “Walk through that with me?”

Cithrin started undoing the pearl buttons that ran down the green dress’s back, her fingernail clicking against the hard little spheres. The third one was a degree larger than the others, and she had to force it through its hole.

“I have something Geder Palliako has decided he wants. In exchange for it, I can help more people. If I can just play the role, the rewards in information alone will be beyond any normal price.”

“If,” he said.

“You think I can’t maintain the subterfuge?” Cithrin said with a grin as she stepped into the dress and pulled the sleeves onto her arms.

“I don’t,” Yardem said. “A year ago, I think you could have. But not now.”

“You don’t give me credit,” she said. “Button this for me, would you?”

Yardem rose with something like a sigh and began fastening the stays and buttons up her back. It was possible that the green wasn’t elegant enough for the occasion. Cithrin wasn’t certain of the etiquette of giving herself over to the role of Geder’s lover. Maybe a dress wasn’t called for at all. Maybe she should greet him in a little rouge and a smile. She scowled at the thought and pulled the sleeves a bit straighter.

“Well, I think you’re mistaken,” she said. “And considering the good we can do, it’s the obvious risk to take.”

“It’s only a risk if you don’t know the outcome, ma’am,” Yardem said, fixing the last and highest of the buttons. His knuckle brushed the nape of her neck as he finished. “I’d like you to take a moment to pray with me.”

“What?” Cithrin asked, turning toward him. Yardem held out his hands to her, palms up. She hesitated for a moment, then took them. Yardem closed his eyes and lowered his head, and she followed his example. As soon as her eyes were closed, the chaos of her mind whipped at her. She tried to gather herself enough to pray or think kind thoughts or whatever it was she was intended to do, but it was as much as she could manage just to keep from opening her eyes, pulling away, and finding some other small task to distract her. She felt a brief but intense resentment of Yardem for imposing on her this way. She had enough to carry without the additional burden of thinking too closely about it.

Yardem let out a calm breath, and she opened her eyes as he looked up.

“Change your mind, ma’am?”

Sorrow bloomed in her and she moved in, hugging the Tralgu close for a moment before letting him go. “Thank you for trying. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it that you care. But this is what I have to do. I don’t like it and I don’t want it, but this war is what we have. You were the one who told me sex is a woman’s natural weapon.”

Yardem’s ears shot forward.

“I never said that,” he said.

“You did. You’ve just forgotten. It was when we were first going from Vanai to Porte Oliva. We were training, and I kept asking what was a woman’s natural weapon. You said sex was.”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t. We were talking about fighting, and I made the point that on the average, men have longer reach and stronger arms, and weapons are based on reach and strength. A woman who wants to fight has to train harder to come even. I can’t recommend using sex in a melee.”

They were silent for a moment. Something was shifting in Cithrin’s chest. Unwinding like tie rope on a spool losing its tension.

“But,” she began and then wasn’t sure where to go.

Yardem scratched his chin reflectively. “Sling, maybe. Or a short sword. Not sex.”

“But you said—”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Then who did?” Cithrin asked.

“Believe that was Sandr.”

“Oh,” Cithrin said. Then a moment later, “Sandr’s kind of a pig.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

Cithrin looked down. The unwinding sensation in her chest intensified. Something in her was releasing, opening. It felt nauseating and it felt like relief. She pressed her lips together and looked up into Yardem’s face. His expression was as placid and calm as ever.

“Yardem?” she said. “I can’t do this.”

“No, ma’am. You can’t. There’s a ship waiting. I’ve given word to everyone that we’re leaving, so they won’t be caught unprepared. Enen’s packed up all the books and ledgers from the office. We can get whatever else you’d like, but we should hurry. The tide’s going out in two hours.”

Cithrin looked around her room. Her heart was beating fast and strong and true. She plucked the little plant from off her windowsill.

“I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The ship was small with a shallow draft and wide sails. It slipped away from the dock seeming to go faster than the wind that carried it. Cithrin stood on the deck. She still had the green dress, but Enen had given her a thick cloak of leather lined with wool that she’d wrapped around her shoulders. The sea was choppy with a million tiny waves jittering and seagulls wheeling in the high air. They didn’t have the weight to smooth the swell and drop of the sea, and one of the house guards that Yardem had brought with them was being noisily sick over the side. Cithrin’s stomach, on the other hand, felt more solid and calm than it ever had. She was even hungry.

Suddapal receded. The great dark buildings greyed with distance. The great piers that pressed so far out into the water shrank to twigs and the tall ships became small enough to cover with her outstretched thumb. When she looked down into the water, she was surprised to see dark eyes looking up at hers. A pod of the Drowned had grabbed on to the ship, coasting with it like an underwater tail. Cithrin smiled at them and waved. One waved back, and before long, they had let go and fallen back into the depths of the water. By the time the sun fell into the sea, the city was gone.

And if she ever went back there, it would still be gone.

She felt Yardem come up behind her more than heard him. When she glanced back and up, he was standing there placidly, looking out at the pale white wake drawn out behind them and the darkening water.

“Well,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m about to disappoint the Lord Regent. I don’t imagine he’ll take it well.”

“To judge from his past, likely not,” Yardem said.

“Perhaps I should have left him a letter.”

“Saying what, ma’am?”

“I don’t know. That I’m sorry. That I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Not sure that matters, ma’am.”

“It does to me. He’s a terrible person, you know. But he’s also not. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who managed to make himself so alone.”

Yardem grunted, then cleared his throat. “I’ve known hermits, ma’am. Very few of them burned down cities.”

“Fair point,” Cithrin said. “Still, I wish there was some way to talk just with the best parts of him.”

“Could wish that of anyone,” Yardem said.

The boat rose and fell gently. Rose and fell. It would be weeks yet before she reached Porte Oliva and home. She wondered what it would be like, hearing Pyk Usterhall’s rough, angry voice and sitting with Maestro Asanpur with his single blind eye and his perfect coffee and all the familiar faces again. She wanted to believe that she would fit back into the same place she had before, that she would find them as they had been, but she doubted it would happen.

She saw now that she had changed, though she still didn’t quite understand what she’d become. There was a contradiction in it, because Yardem was right. A year before, she would have been able to go through with it, and now she couldn’t. She had become capable of fewer things, and yet she felt freed. She wondered if Magistra Isadau was waiting in Porte Oliva. It was the sort of question that she could answer if anyone could.

“If I’d stayed,” she said. “If I’d been his lover, do you think he might have changed?”

Yardem stood silently for a long moment, his arms crossed and his ears canted forward.

“No,” he said.