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 person 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 cafe. 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
