remaining marks. In the end, they would have a blank page, ready to take whatever carefully practiced words Cithrin put on it, already signed and endorsed by the former head of the bank. A man, the story would have it, who foresaw the coming death of his city at Antean hands and concocted a scheme to refound his branch in Porte Oliva with Cithrin as his agent.
Provided they could put the wax in the right spot. Marcus leaned forward, fingers reaching toward the side of the document.
“If you just-”
“Sir?”
“Yardem?”
The Tralgu’s ears sloped backward, set so close to his head that the earrings rested on his scalp.
“Go over there, sir.”
“But I-”
“Go.”
Marcus tapped at the air just before the parchment, grunted, and turned away. The boxes in the small rooms above the gambler’s stall had been shifted and rearranged, making what had been one small room into two tiny ones. Outside, a warm spring wind hissed, rattling the shutters and making the world in general seem uneasy and restless. It had been a long time since Marcus had broken the thaw in a southern port, and the rich salt-stink of the bay reminded him of yesterday’s fish. Cithrin sat on a stool, dressed in her carter’s rough, with Cary squeezed in close beside her. Master Kit stood a few steps away, his arms crossed over his chest.
“That was better,” Master Kit said, “but I think you’ve gone a little too far in the other direction. I don’t want you to seem burdened. Instead of thinking of weight, imagine how you would move in a heavy wool cloak.”
Cary put her hand to Cithrin’s back.
“You’re too tight here,” Cary said. “Relax that and put the tension up here. ”
Cithrin frowned, tiny half moons appearing at the corners of her mouth.
“Like your breasts were too heavy,” Cary said.
“Oh,” Cithrin said, brightening. “Right.”
She rose from her stool, took a step toward Master Kit, turned, and sat back down. Marcus couldn’t have said what had changed in the way the girl moved, only that it was different. Older. Master Kit and Cary smiled at each other.
“Progress,” Master Kit said. “Unquestionable progress.”
“I think we’re ready to walk down to the square,” Cary said.
“With my blessing,” Master Kit said, stepping back until he was almost pressed to Marcus’s belly. The two women made their way across the thin strip of floor to the head of the stairway, hand in hand.
“Lower in the hips,” Master Kit said. “Sink into them. Don’t walk from your ankles.”
The creak of boards descended until the pair were out in the street and gone. The wind gusted up the stairway, and the door at the bottom slammed shut. Marcus blew out his breath and sat on the newly vacant stool.
“I think she’s quite good,” Master Kit said. “Not much natural sense of her own body, but no particular fear of it either, and I find that’s half the work.”
“That’s good,” Marcus said.
“It seems the cuts on her thumbs are scarring nicely. I expect she’ll have a good callus when that’s through. Like she’s been signing contracts for years. Did you put lye in the wounds?”
“Ash and honey,” Marcus said. “Just as good, and it doesn’t tend to go septic.”
“Fair point. I thought that calling her three-quarters Cinnae was a good choice. If she’s nearer full-blood, the Firstblood thickness may read more as years than parentage.”
“I’ve always thought Cinnae look to be about twelve anyway,” Marcus said. “Terrible in a fight. No weight behind the blows.”
Master Kit leaned a shoulder against the wall. His dark eyes flitted across Marcus as if the actor were reading a book.
“And how are you, Captain?”
“I hate this,” Marcus said. “I hate this plan. I hate that we’re forging documents. I hate that Cithrin pulled you and yours into it. There’s nothing about the entire scheme I don’t hate.”
“And yet it seems you’ve chosen to come along.”
“I don’t have a better idea,” Marcus said. “Except fill our pockets and walk away. That’s still got some charm.”
“So why don’t you do that? The boxes are here. I’d say you’ve more than earned your pay.”
Marcus let out a mirthless chuckle and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. From the far side of the room, Yardem made a satisfied grunt. The wax dip had worked this time.
“There are going to be consequences,” Marcus said. “She can’t just say it’s all hers now and make it true. It’s like walking into Cabral and casually announcing that you’re the new mayor of Upurt Marion, and all the port taxes go to you now. And what’s it going to upset? We don’t know. By the end of the season, every trading house and royal court is going to have a theory of what exactly Komme Medean is signaling by investing in Porte Oliva. It’s going to mean something about the relationship of Birancour and Cabral, and whether the freight from Qart-hadath is landing here or there. Why isn’t there a branch here already? Is it because the queen warned them off? We might be violating half a dozen treaties and agreements right now, and we wouldn’t know it.”
“I agree with all of that,” Master Kit said. “The risk seems real.”
“We’re about to be the bold, unexpected move on the part of a bank with a great deal of money and influence, and don’t think for a moment that they’ll appreciate our putting our hand to the tiller.”
“And that’s why you dislike the plan?”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
Master Kit looked down. The wind stilled, then gusted again, pressing against the little rooms and stirring the air.
“Why do you dislike this plan, Captain?” the actor said.
He felt a stab of annoyance, and then the cool, almost sick feeling of the right answer swimming into his mind. He scratched his leg, feeling the tooth of the cloth against his fingertips. His hands seemed older than they should. When he thought of them, they still looked like they had when he’d first been on campaign. Strong, smooth, capable. Now there was as much scar to them as skin. The nail of his right thumb had been cut half off once, and it hadn’t grown back quite right. The knuckles were larger than they had been. The calluses had more yellow to them. He turned them over, considering his palms as well. If he looked closely, he could still make out the dots of white where a dog had bitten him once, a lifetime ago.
“She knows the risks, but she doesn’t understand them,” Marcus said. “I can say everything to her I just said to you, and she’ll answer me back. Argument for argument. She’ll say the regained capital justifies the decision. That the holding company isn’t liable for her, nor are the other branches, so anything they make back is a step above where they were when the money was simply lost.”
“And yet,” Master Kit said.
“I know how to protect her from thugs and raiders. I know how to fight pirates. I don’t know how to protect her from herself, and hand to God, that girl is the worst danger she’ll ever face.”
“It can be hard, can’t it? Losing control,” Master Kit said.
“I don’t control her,” Marcus said.
“I think you do, but I’m open to being proven wrong. What are three decisions she’s made before this? In the time you’ve known her, I mean.”
Yardem Hane loomed up behind the actor, wiping oil from his fingers onto a bit of grey cloth. For a moment, Marcus thought it might offer distraction, but the Tralgu’s passive expression told him that he’d come to listen to the conversation, not to end it.
“She got that dress of hers,” Marcus said. “And she chose to go to your performances.”
“Two, then?” Master Kit said.
“She picked the fish for dinner,” Marcus said.
“And how would you compare that with other contracts you’ve had?” Master Kit asked. “I don’t believe you have thought of Cithrin as your employer so much as the little girl who’d swum out near the riptide. Has she paid
