“Excellent.”
“I would also like to make a suggestion? If I may.”
Paerin Clark raised his eyebrows. Cithrin took a deep breath.
“Due to circumstances,” she said, “I have been identified closely with the bank here in the city. With the branch being so recently established, I think it wouldn’t be in anybody’s interest to change that. Once you’ve completed your audit, I hope you’ll consider keeping me on as the public face of the branch.”
Clark took up his pen and closed the still-unmarked notebook.
“I think you have misunderstood the situation,” he said. “This… let’s call it misadventure… has embarrassed the Medean bank in general and Komme Medean in particular. It has disrupted negotiations in Herez and Northcoast, and taken resources, myself included, away from some profoundly important situations. From what you’ve told me, I expect you’ve been taken in by a mercenary captain for reasons I haven’t fathomed yet. But I am very, very good at what I do. If there’s anything here you haven’t told me, I will find it. I’m going to spend as long as it takes to review every transaction you’ve made. I already have three men going through the city asking about your activity. If there’s anything that’s not in these books, I’ll find that too. And public gaol in Porte Oliva is far from the worst thing that can happen from here.
“Now, before I get started, I have one last question. I will ask you this only once. If you tell me the truth, I am in a position to see you’re treated mercifully. If you lie, I can make your life unbearable. You understand?”
She should have been frightened. That was what Clark intended, certainly. Instead, an odd peace flowed into her. He was bullying her. He was condescending to her. He was underestimating her. And so her last reservations were laid to rest. The man was an ass, and anything she did to him would be justified.
“I understand,” she said. She saw him hesitate, hearing something in her voice he hadn’t expected. She smiled. “What was your question?”
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked
That I’m going to beat you, Cithrin thought. That I am going to win.
“If you have any questions, Master Clark, I am at your disposal,” Cithrin said. “But my numbers balance.”
For the next week, she lived in exile, sitting in the cafe or walking through the city streets during the days, sleeping at night at an inn not far from her bank. The auditor called upon her daily with lists of questions and clarifications: Why was the rate of interest specified in this contract, but not in another? Why was a particular sum withdrawn from the bank’s reserves, and when would it be returned? Why was this loan accepted when another apparently of greater merit was refused? Cithrin sat in her rooms- hers, dammit-and allowed herself to be subjected to the examination. She knew every answer, and after a few days, it became something of a game to watch Clark try to catch her out. He was smart, and he knew his business. She even found herself respecting him. He had been doing this work since Cithrin was a hardly more than a child.
But then, so had she.
The ships left for Narinisle. They carried pressed oil, wine, cotton cloth, and the dreams and hopes of the merchant houses of Porte Oliva. But they didn’t carry any agreements of capital from the Medean bank in Porte Oliva, because the audit was still progressing. Next year, maybe.
Cithrin stood on the seawall and watched the ships depart, towed out past the dangers of the bay, and then sails rising up and filling like spring flowers in bloom. She stood silently until they faded into the grey between sea and sky, and then she watched the haze. Seagulls called and turned in the wide air, complaining or celebrating. At her side, Captain Wester crossed his arms.
“Another one came to the cafe this morning,” he said. “Your brewer lady and her son.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Yardem talked with them. He said the same as the others. The audit’s normal for a new branch, and please to go along with whatever the man asks. She wasn’t happy. Wanted to talk with you. Didn’t like it when he said that the two of you comparing notes would only make the auditor’s job harder. Accused Yardem of accusing her of something.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Cithrin said. “I’d stop this all if I could.”
“I know.”
Cithrin pulled her cloak closer around her and turned away from the limitless sea back toward the city. Her city. She wasn’t sure when it had become hers.
“With luck, we’ll be back to normal before long.”
He fell in at her side. She couldn’t say if she matched his stride or if he matched hers.
“You still have the option of walking away,” he said. “I can go get the key back. You can reclaim the box from the governor’s palace. It wouldn’t be so bad. Carse is a decent enough city. Even if there is trouble with the succession, you’d be safe there. No one tries to put Carse under siege. Give it a year, take your money. You could do anything.”
“I couldn’t do this,” Cithrin said.
“Fair point.”
They walked down long, whitewashed steps and along the wall toward the salt quarter. Somewhere along the way, they passed the spot where Opal had died, but she didn’t recognize it and she didn’t ask. A small wire- haired dog trotted by, yipped at them, and sped away when Marcus pretended to reach down for a rock to throw.
“Notice you haven’t been drinking,” he said.
I would drown a small child for a bottle of wine, Cithrin thought, but I am going to need my wits, and there won’t be any warning.
“I don’t miss it,” she said.
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
“Don’t miss that either.”
The inn that had become their home while the bank itself remained under occupation sat at the corner of two of the larger of Porte Oliva’s narrow streets. Its white walls and wooden roof looked cold under the low clouds. As they came near, a man stepped out of the doorway. She saw Marcus become alert without changing his stride. She felt a low burning in her throat.
The man came toward them. One of Paerin Clark’s guards.
“He wants to see me?” Cithrin asked.
“Same as always, miss,” the guard said. “I think he’s finished up.”
Cithrin took a deep breath. The time had come.
“May I bring the captain along?”
“Don’t see why not.”
The walk back to the bank was short, but Cithrin felt every step of it. It occurred to her that the dress she was wearing was the first she’d bought when she came to Porte Oliva, the one she’d invented Hallskari salt dyes for in exchange for a five-coin reduction. The dress of a truly dangerous woman. She tried to take it as a good omen.
A Kurtadam boy walked by selling paper funnels with honeyed almonds, and Cithrin stopped to buy one. She popped two in her mouth, gave one to Marcus. Paerin’s guard waited, and she tipped the paper toward him. Smiling, he took two. So he was willing to accept gifts from her. That meant he was either a cold bastard to the bone, or the news from the auditor was good. No, she thought, it meant the guard believed it was good.
For twenty days, she had been denied her room. Walking back up the stairs, she was prepared to choke down outrage, but when she reached the top, everything was precisely as it had been. Paerin Clark might have been a ghost for all the trace he left of himself.
The man sat at her desk. He was writing now, the illegible symbols of cipher coming from the nib of his pen without need of a code book. He nodded to Cithrin and then to Marcus, finished the line of script, and turned to them.
“Mistress bel Sarcour,” he said. “I had one last question for you. I hope you don’t mind.”
His tone had changed markedly. She could hear the respect in it. That was fair. She’d earned it.
“Of course.”
“I’m fairly sure I’ve guessed the answer, but there’s a sum placed aside in the most recent books. Six hundred twelve weight of silver?”
