Herez along her way, whether to leave by herself dressed as a courier and ride alone in the wide world. Every new version seemed sweeter, more enchanting, more real than the last. She’d settled on a middle way. Marcus and Yardem Hane and herself, traveling on the dragon’s roads all along the way. A small group would move quickly, and the trained blades and little promise of gain would discourage most of the trouble that might come. Rather than pack the dresses and paints and formal attire she’d want in Carse, she would take a letter of credit and purchase them there.
Then came the news of war.
“No,” Marcus said. “Not overland. There’ll be refugees on all the roads through Northcoast. Thick in the last parts of Birancour too, for that matter.”
The counting house was empty apart from the three of them—Marcus, Cithrin, and Pyk. The chalked duty roster showed half a dozen names, but most of them were on the road back from Cemmis township under Yardem’s command, and the others Marcus had set to wait in the street. Their voices were audible, but Cithrin couldn’t make out any words. Her map was stretched out on the floor, with all of them looking at it as if there was a secret message hidden in its lines. Birancour in the south, with the smaller kingdoms clustered around it. Northcoast above and to the right, looking down at it like a disapproving older brother. And beyond it, the war.
“Sea’s a problem too,” Pyk said, sucking at her teeth.
“Why?” Cithrin asked.
“We did just burn a pirate’s ship down to the waterline,” Marcus said. “Might want to give a little time before we offer him a chance at bloody vengeance.”
Pyk’s expression darkened, but she didn’t speak. Cithrin hadn’t gone to the woman until Marcus had returned with confirmation that their scheme had worked. She’d left the notary in an uncomfortable place. Cithrin had taken action on the bank’s behalf without Pyk’s knowledge, but there had been no formal negotiation, no papers to sign. Nothing she’d done violated the terms under which Cithrin was bound. Only the spirit and intention of the thing was compromised, and in the process, the losses of the
“Overland to Sara-sur-Mar and then by ship,” Pyk said. “Cuts out the waters near Cabral and keeps her far enough west she’ll miss the worst of it.”
“Likely the best route,” Marcus said. “It does pass through some rough territory in the center. The farmlands are taxed hard. There’s places where the locals see travelers as either predators or prey.”
“That’s truth,” Pyk said, though she sounded less worried about it than pleased. “The reports will want guarding.”
“I don’t want a full caravan,” Cithrin said. “Just Marcus and Yardem will be fine, I think.”
“The hell they will,” Pyk said.
“That’s not a choice you get to make,” Marcus said.
The Yemmu woman’s thick lips went slack in surprise.
“You’re serious?” she said. “And here I was starting to think you weren’t an idiot. Or am I the only one who’s thought through the implications? Northcoast was on the edge of a fresh war of succession last year. King Tracian’s ass has barely warmed up his throne. Now Asterilhold—his neighbor with the longest and least defensible border— is marching into the field against Imperial Antea.”
“Your point being?” Cithrin asked archly.
“You want to go there with Marcus Wester in tow? Because the way I remember it, last time he was in Northcoast he killed their king.”
“And gave the throne to Lady Tracian,” Marcus said.
“So now that it’s her nephew wearing the crown, maybe you’ve come to take it back,” Pyk said. “If I were king of Northcoast and you came waltzing back into my kingdom with sword music already singing in my ears, you know what I’d do? Lock your pretty little ass up just to be on the safe side. And I’d start looking pretty damn funny at whoever it was that brought you, and I don’t mean the magistra here.”
“I’ll be fine,” Marcus said.
Pyk hoisted her eyebrows but didn’t say anything more. A shout came from the street, and then laughter. A single sharp rap on the door announced Yardem Hane. The Tralgu’s ears were canted forward, giving him an earnest, attentive look.
“It’s all in the warehouse, sir.”
“You have a full list?” Pyk snapped.
Yardem walked across the room and gave the woman a handful of papers, but Cithrin’s attention was still on the map, her mind turning over the journey still ahead. A tightness she hadn’t expected was knotting her belly. In the corner of her vision, Pyk ran a scarred thumb down the list. The hiss of paper against paper when she moved the second page was like an impatient sigh.
“This isn’t ours,” she said, tapping at the page.
“Is now,” Marcus said. “It’s in our warehouse.”
“Oh, really?” Pyk said. “And when some salt quarter merchant files claim with the governor, is that what you’re telling the magistrate? Well, we took it from a pirate, so it’s ours? If we don’t have papers proving our right to have it, get it out of my warehouse.”
Cithrin pressed a fingertip against the northern coast, tracing it from Northcoast to Asterilhold to Antea. She had fled Antean swords before now. The Imperial Army had taken Vanai, and some Antean governor had burned it. They would remember that. The border between the combatants was a river flowing up from the marshes in the south and spilling into the northern sea. Only a single dragon’s road crossed the water like a gate in a wall. The sea would be, if anything, the wider battleground. When the nobles and merchants of Asterilhold fled west, away from the enemy, Northcoast would be the only place to escape to.
“Yes, they are. Salvage rights are rights,” Marcus was saying. Cithrin realized she’d missed part of the conversation.
“When it’s your name taking the risk, you can keep anything stolen from anyone and
“I’d like to speak with the captain alone now, please,” Cithrin said. Three sets of eyes turned to look at her. Pyk and Marcus both smoldered with anger. Yardem was unreadable as always. “Just Marcus. Just for a moment.”
Pyk made a spitting sound, but didn’t spit. Her rolling gait made her seem like a ship caught on high seas as she strode out. Yardem nodded, flicked one ear, and retreated, pulling the door to behind him.
“That woman is a disaster,” Marcus said, pointing two fingers at the door. “I think they sent her just to punish us.”
“They probably did,” Cithrin said. “That’s part of why she’s right.”
“She’s not, though. As soon as Rinal took those crates, he—”
“Not about that. About Carse. I can’t take you.”
Marcus crossed his arms and leaned against the high table that was the last remnant of the old gambler’s desk. His expression was empty.
“I see,” he said.
“I’m going to Carse to win over Komme Medean,” she said. “If I’m bringing a scandal along with me, it doesn’t help. And you’re Marcus Wester. You’re the man who killed the Mayfly King. I forget that because I know you. And you don’t make that who you are. But for the rest of the world, and especially the court in Northcoast, they won’t hear your name without thinking of armies and dead kings. I need Komme Medean to like me. Or respect me.”
His lips pressed white, sharp lines of anger drawing themselves down the sides of his mouth. For a long moment, Cithrin had the sick feeling that he was about to resign. Quit her and the bank and everything else. Then he looked at her and he softened.
“Well,” he said. A dog yelped and a man’s voice cursed not far away. Marcus scratched his cheek, the sound like sand falling against paper. “I suppose someone’s got to keep an eye on Pyk.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll still need guards. If it’s not me and Yardem, you’ll need four at least. We’re just that good.” Cithrin smiled and Marcus managed to smile back. “Just… just promise me you’ll be safe. I have a bad history of losing
