The King's Blood

Capsen thought someone was going to be brought to justice, it would be a little more awkward.

But that was for later. Marcus took a pouch off his belt and pulled out four measures of silver and put them on the table. Then two more. Capsen’s eyebrows rose.

“For the name,” Marcus said. “I like to know who I’m fighting.”

“Why do you think I know his name?”

Marcus shrugged and reached for the extra coins.

“Rinal. Maceo Rinal. He’s some sort of noble blood in Cabral.”

“All right, then,” Marcus said, folding the map and tucking it in his belt. “Good talking with you.”

“We’ll be seeing you again, I hope?”

Marcus ducked through the door and Yardem fell in behind him. The sea stretched out to the south, the calm grey of lead. The last red and gold of sunset still haunted the western horizon. Part of him wanted to take the horse now, go farther west. The cove wouldn’t be farther than the two of them could ride by midnight. In the worst case, they’d be discovered, and then at least there’d be a fight.

But his men were in Porte Oliva. And Cithrin was waiting for word. Going farther was a risk he didn’t need to take, not now, but it was a temptation. A restlessness looking for escape.

“Sir?”

Let’s just take a look floated at the back of his tongue.

“We head to the city,” he said. “We’ll get some blades behind us and come back.”

Yardem’s ears rose.

“What? That’s a surprise?”

“Almost expected we’d be going on, sir.”

“That’d be stupid.”

“I don’t disagree, sir. Just thought it might be the mistake we made.”

Marcus shrugged and headed back for the horses, troubled by the knowledge that if he’d been alone, he would have done it.

They made camp in a stand of green oaks, their horses tied to an ancient altar tucked away among the trees, ivy-covered, eroded and forgotten. In the morning, Marcus broke the night’s fast with a strip of salt-dried goat and a handful of limp springpeas still in the pod. Approaching Porte Oliva from the west was harder terrain than it looked. The hills were green with grass and heather, but it was uneven. Broken stones hid everywhere, ready to turn under a misplaced hoof. There was a story that a king of Old Cabral had launched an invasion of Birancour along this coast, only to have his cavalry lamed before the first battle. Marcus didn’t believe it, but he didn’t disbelieve it either.

The high, pale walls seemed darker with the sun behind them. The traffic into and out of the city was choked with beggars, but he was well enough known in the city now that they bothered him less. That group of liars and thieves were better attuned to travelers, as if by smelling of Porte Oliva he were already complicit in the wrenching stories of sick babies and the twisted legs that worked better when no one was looking. To be ignored by the beggars was a mark of citizenship, and even though it was invisible, Marcus wore it now. In the midst of the stalls and the houses and the complex web of streets, he passed through the fortification wall and then into the city proper.

Marcus was just leaving the stables when an unexpected voice called his name. By the mouth of a small side street stood a long-faced man with tall, wiry hair and the olive complexion of Put. He wore a simple brown robe and carried a walking staff that was black from use where he held it. For the first time in weeks, Marcus felt a grin come to his mouth unbidden.

“Kit? What are you doing here?”

“I hoped I would find you, actually,” the master actor said. “And Yardem Hane! I am pleased to see you again. I think the city life must be agreeing with you, yes? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you looking so healthy.”

“He means fat,” Marcus said.

“Knew what he meant, sir,” Yardem said, feigning displeasure. Then he broke into a wide, canine grin. “I didn’t expect the company to come back so soon.”

Master Kit hesitated.

“They haven’t. I’ve been traveling on my own. I was hoping to talk to you about that, Marcus. If you have time for it. If you have business with Yardem, of course, I wouldn’t want to interrupt it.”

Marcus glanced over at Yardem. He saw from the angle of the Tralgu’s head that he’d heard the same thing. The request for a private meeting, even without his second. Yardem shrugged.

“I’ll make the report to the magistra,” Yardem said.

“Would you be kind enough not to mention seeing me?” Kit asked.

Yardem’s ears were at high alert now. Marcus nodded once.

“If you’d like,” Yardem said. “I’ll be at the counting house, sir.”

“I’ll be along shortly,” Marcus said. “Soon as I find what Kit’s being so mysterious about.”

The common house Kit led him to sat at the edge of a narrow square in the salt quarter. A dry fountain no more than a man’s height across stood at the center, still seeming too large for the space. Pigeons strutted and cooed and shat. Marcus and Kit shared a bench as a Firstblood woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and a vast birthmark purpling her neck brought them mugs of hard cider. For a time, they talked about the company—Sandr and Smit and Hornet. Mikel and Cary. Charlit Soon, the new actor they’d picked up in Porte Oliva before they’d left for the north. It was the usual gossip and stories, but Marcus thought there was fear behind it.

When Kit paused once a bit too long, Marcus pressed the issue.

“Did something happen with the company?” he asked.

“Nothing more than losing an actor, I hope. I think they are really quite a talented group. Without me, I’d weigh their chances as good as anyone’s.”

“But you left them.”

“I did. Not from want. I’ve found something I need to do that I didn’t want them exposed to. It was hard enough losing Opal, and what happened to her was her own doing.”

Marcus sat forward. They weren’t too far from the stretch of wall where Opal, leading lady of Kit’s actors and Cithrin’s betrayer, had ended her life. Marcus felt like he should recall better how she’d died, but for the most part he just remembered that he’d done it and pitched her body through the gap in the seawall.

“Is that why you wanted me?” Marcus asked. “Is this about Opal?”

“No,” Kit said. “It isn’t.”

Marcus nodded.

“What’s the issue, then?”

The old man laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. His eyes had dark pouches under them and he held his cup in both hands, as if weary.

“I have come here from Camnipol to talk with you, and now that I’m here I’m finding it hard to choose the words. All right. I am going on an errand. I expect it to be very dangerous. I may not survive it.”

“What is this, Kit?”

“I believe something… evil has been loosed in the world. I can’t think of anyone beside myself who is in the position to oppose it. I feel I must go, and for some rather complicated reasons, I would rather not go alone. In all my travels, I’ve met very few people who I thought would be well suited to a task like this. You are one. I would like you to come with me.”

As if in answer, the pigeons rose up as one: fluttering pearly wings and a rush of dung-scented air. Marcus drank some of his cider to give himself a moment’s thought.

“The most likely thing is you’ve spent too long playing at stories and it’s gone to your head,” Marcus said.

“I wish I could think that was true.” Kit sighed. “If I were mad, it would only be one lost man in a world of people. But I think I’m sane.”

“Madmen often do. What’s this thing you’re supposed to defeat?”

“The details might not make me seem saner,” Master Kit said. “And I think they wouldn’t be safe to share. Not yet. Not here. But say you’ll come with me, and I promise I will give you proof that some at least of what I say is true. I’m going south and then east. Far east. I think it won’t be safe, but it would be safer if I had you.”