She threw open the shutters and leaned out. The mist had cleared enough that the street was plain before her. A dozen men in the livery of the prince, five of them holding pitch-reeking torches, crowded the door. Their voices were loud and merry and cruel. One looked up, his dark eyes catching hers. The soldier broke into a grin. Cithrin, not knowing what was happening, smiled back uneasily and retreated. Her blood felt cold even before she heard the voices-Magister Imaniel sounding wary, the guard captain laughing, and then Cam’s heartbroken cry.
Cithrin ran down the stairway, the dim light of a distant lantern making the corridors a paler shade of black. Part of her knew that running toward the front door was lunacy, that she should be running the other direction. But she’d heard Cam’s voice, and she had to know.
The guards were already gone when she reached the door. Magister Imaniel stood perfectly still, a lantern of tin and glass glowing in his hand. His face was expressionless. Cam knelt beside him, her wide fist pressed against her mouth. And Besel-perfect Besel, beautiful Besel-lay on the stone floor, bloody but no longer bleeding. Cithrin felt a shriek growing in the back of her throat, but she couldn’t make a sound.
“Get me a cunning man,” Magister Imaniel said.
“It’s too late,” Cam said, her throat thick with tears.
“I didn’t ask. Get me a cunning man. Cithrin, come here. Help me carry him in.”
There was no hope, but they did as they were told. Cam pulled on a wool cloak and hurried off into the gloom. Cithrin took Besel’s heels, Magister Imaniel his shoulders. Together, they hauled the body into the dining room and laid him on the wide wooden table. There were cuts on Besel’s face and hands. A deep gouge ran from his wrist almost to his elbow, the sleeve torn by the blade’s passage. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t bleed. He looked as peaceful as a man asleep.
The cunning man came, rubbed powders into Besel’s empty eyes, pressed palms to his silent chest, called the spirits and the angels. Besel took one long, ragged breath, but the magic wasn’t enough. Magister Imaniel paid the cunning man three thick silver coins and sent him on his way. Cam lit a fire in the grate, the flames giving Besel the eerie illusion of motion.
Magister Imaniel stood at the head of the table, looking down. Cithrin stepped forward and took Besel’s cold and stiffening hand. She wanted badly to cry, but she couldn’t. Fear and pain and terrible disbelief raged in her and found no escape. When she looked up, Magister Imaniel’s gaze was on her.
Cam spoke. “We should have given it over. Let the prince take what he wants. It’s only money.”
“Bring me his clothes,” Magister Imaniel said. “A clean shirt. And that red jacket he disliked.”
His eyes were moving now, darting as if reading words written in the air. Cam and Cithrin exchanged a glance. Cithrin’s first, mad thought was that he wanted to wash and dress the body for burial.
“Cam?” Magister Imaniel said. “Did you hear me? Go!”
The old woman heaved herself up from the hearth and trundled quickly into the depths of house. Magister Imaniel turned to Cithrin. His cheeks were flushed, but she couldn’t say if it was rage or shame or something deeper.
“Can you steer a cart?” he asked. “Drive a small team? Two mules.”
“I don’t know,” Cithrin said. “Maybe.”
“Strip,” he said.
She blinked.
“Strip,” he said. “Your night clothes. Take them off. I need to see what were working with.”
Uncertainly, Cithrin lifted her hands to the stays at her shoulders, undid the knots, and let the cloth fall to the floor. The cold air raised gooseflesh on her skin. Magister Imaniel made small noises in the back of his throat as he walked around her, making some evaluation she couldn’t fathom. The corpse of Besel made no move. She felt the echo of shame. It occurred to her that she had never been naked in front of a man before.
Cam’s eyes went wide when she returned, her mouth making a little O of surprise. And then, less than a heartbeat later, her expression went hard as stone.
“No,” Cam said.
“Give me the shirt,” Magister Imaniel said.
Cam did nothing. He walked over and lifted Besel’s shirt and jacket from her. She didn’t stop him. Without speaking, he dropped the shirt over Cithrin’s head. The cloth was soft and warm, and smelled of the dead man’s skin. The hem dropped down low enough to restore some measure of modesty. Magister Imaniel stood back, and a bleak pleasure appeared at the corners of his eyes. He tossed Cithrin the jacket and nodded that she should put it on.
“We’ll need some needlework done,” he said, “but it’s possible.”
“You mustn’t do this, sir,” Cam said. “She’s just a girl.”
Magister Imaniel ignored her, stepping close again to pull Cithrin’s hair back from her face. He tapped his fingers together as if trying to remember something, bent to the fire grate, and rubbed his thumb through the soot. He smudged Cithrin’s cheeks and chin. She smelled old smoke.
“We’ll need something better, but…” he said, clearly speaking only to himself. “Now… what is your name?”
“Cithrin?” she said.
Magister Imaniel barked out a laugh.
“What kind of name is that for a fine strapping boy like yourself? Tag. Your name is Tag. Say that.”
“My name is Tag,” she said.
Magister Imaniel’s face twisted in scorn. “You talk like a girl, Tag.”
“My name is Tag,” Cithrin said, roughening her voice and mumbling.
“Fair,” he said. “Only fair. But we’ll work on it.”
“You can’t do this,” Cam said.
Magister Imaniel smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“The prince has crossed a line,” he said. “The policy of the bank is clear. He gets nothing.”
“You are the policy of the bank,” Cam said.
“And I am clear. Tag, my boy? A week from now, you are going to go to Master Will, down in the Old Quarter. He’s going to hire you to drive a cart in a caravan bound for Northcoast. Undyed wool cloth he’s moving to keep from losing it in the war.”
Cithrin didn’t nod or shake her head. The world was spinning a little, and everything had the sense of being part of a terrible dream.
“When you reach Carse,” Magister Imaniel continued, “you take the cart to the holding company. I’ll give you a map and directions. And a letter that will explain everything.”
“It’s weeks on the road!” Cam shouted. “Months, if there’s snow in the pass.”
Magister Imaniel turned, rage lighting his eyes. His voice was low and cold.
“What would you have me do? Keep her here? She’s no safer in our beds than passing for a carter in a caravan. And I will not simply accept the loss.”
“I don’t understand,” Cithrin said. Her voice sounded distant in her ears, as if she were shouting over surf.
“The prince’s men are watching us,” Magister Imaniel said. “I must assume they’re watching anyone in the bank’s employ. And, I expect, the bank’s ward, Cithrin the half-Cinnae. Tag the Carter, on the other hand…”
“The carter?” Cithrin said, echoing him more than thinking thoughts of her own.
“The cart’s false,” Cam said, her voice thick with despair. “Besel was set to take it. Smuggle out all the money we can.”
“The gold?” Cithrin said. “You want me to take the gold to Carse?”
“Some, yes,” Magister Imaniel said. “But gold’s heavy. We’re better sending gems and jewelry. They’re worth more. Spices. Tobacco leaf. Silk. Things light enough they’ll pack tight and won’t break the axles. And the account books. The real ones. As for the coins and ingots… well, I’ll think of something.”
He smiled like the mask of a smile. Besel’s corpse seemed to shift its shoulders in the flickering light. A draught of cold air rubbed against her bare thighs, and the knot in her belly tightened until she tasted vomit in the back of her mouth.
“You can do this thing, my dear,” Magister Imaniel said. “I have faith in you.”
“Thank you,” she said, swallowing.
Cithrin walked through the streets of Vanai, her stomach in knots. The false mustache was the sort of thin,
