“I don’t accept being the only good-looking woman in a city full of bendy little twig men,” Pyk said, “but it doesn’t change the situation. The magistra’s in Camnipol and we’re here. If you want to take care of her, take care of the things that matter to her. And while you’re at it, do what you’re paid for.”
Pyk lifted a handful of papers. Contracts. Letters of enquiry and agreement. Yardem cleared his throat and Marcus forced himself to take his hand off the pommel of his sword. For a moment, the only sounds were the rush of water and the howl of wind. Pyk walked across the room and held out the papers. Slowly, half against his will, Marcus took them.
“This is dangerous work,” Pyk said. “No one sees these except you and Ears.”
“Ears?”
“She means me, sir.”
“Ah.”
“Nothing else you’re doing matters compared to this,” Pyk said. “Manage it well, and we’ll have enough profit to keep this place afloat the rest of the year. All of the contracts have the names of the people I want them going to. Don’t put them in anyone else’s hands. And get it done now.”
Marcus paged through the contracts. He nodded.
“We have something dry to carry them in?” he asked.
Yardem stood. He held a leather satchel in one hand and a broad oilskin envelope in the other. Marcus took them, folding contracts into envelope and envelope into satchel. Pyk folded her arms, her eyes black and narrow and satisfied.
“Don’t cock this up,” she said.
“We’ll do what needs doing,” Marcus said. “Yardem?”
“Coming, sir.”
Marcus stepped into the storm. The raindrops cut at his face and stung his eyes. Yardem padded along beside him.
“Ears?”
“I think she’s taking a liking to me, sir.”
“Well, you’re a charming man. I have to stop by the barracks. Come with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The city was blurred, as if the water could wash away not only objects but lines and color themselves. As if the idea of Porte Oliva was dissolving. In the barracks, a dozen guardsmen were sitting in a rough circle playing at dice. Marcus considered them. He’d hired every person in his company except Yardem. They were good people. Solid men and women, loyal to the bank and to him personally.
Part of him would miss them.
“Ahariel.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Marcus tossed the satchel across the room. The Kurtadam caught it out of the air.
“There’s some contracts in there need delivering. Do what you can, eh?”
“Yes, Captain,” the guardsman said, undoing the satchel’s buckles.
Marcus turned back toward the door. Yardem stood there, his face blank but his ears standing tall and forward.
“Waiting for something?” Marcus asked.
“No, sir.”
“Let’s go, then.”
The inns and taprooms by the port were thick with bodies huddling out of the weather. Gossip and news and unconfirmed speculations came as cheap as a bowl of barley soup or a bottle of cider. Marcus hadn’t considered that one virtue of living in a single place for more than a year was that it gave a sense of which faces and voices didn’t belong. Those were the ones he followed, because those were the ones who had come from places where the petty wars were being started or fought or guarded against.
Merrisen Koke and his men were in Lyoneia, fighting for a local lordling against a pod of tribal Southlings. Karol Dannien, on the other hand, had taken garrison work on the border between Elassae and the Keshet. Tiyatra Egencil, smaller and more recently formed than Koke’s company or Dannien’s, was in Maccia enforcing the law for a prince whose guard had turned. Another company Marcus hadn’t heard of calling themselves Black Hounds was supposed to be doing something in Herez, but the details on that were vague.
The storm blew itself out to sea. When the sunset came late in the day, it turned the high clouds in the south gaudy red and gold. The grey veil beneath them looked almost gentle at this distance. The streets were wet and clean, even the mud washed away. The puppeteers and musicians came out, plying their trades at the street corners and taproom yards. Marcus bought a waxpaper cone of cooked beef for himself and another of eggs and fish for Yardem, and they walked down the wide streets.
“I like Koke best, but I don’t see going to Lyoneia. Maccia’s close, but Egencil’s new at this, and I don’t know that I trust her yet.”
“And she’s working for a prince,” Yardem said.
Marcus shrugged and popped a chip of beef into his mouth. “Why’s that a problem?” he asked around the food.
“I thought we didn’t work for kings, and that princes were just little kings,” Yardem said.
“I’m not looking for someone to work for. I have someone to work for. I need someone to hire.”
Yardem flicked a jingling ear.
“For what, sir?”
“I’m going to get Cithrin,” Marcus said. “Thought that was clear enough.”
“That’s a large favor to ask,” Yardem said. “Even if it was someone from the old days.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“We don’t have anything like the gold to hire a company.”
“I know where there’s a bank’s strongbox.”
Yardem bowed his head and grunted. Marcus went on a half dozen steps before he realized that Yardem had stopped. The Tralgu’s face was perfectly empty. Impassive. Marcus walked back and stood before him.
“You’ve something to say?”
“Do I understand, sir, that your plan is to steal from the bank, hire a mercenary company, and march it into the middle of an imperial civil war?”
“My plan,” Marcus said, his voice conversational but with a buzz of anger, “is to get Cithrin back safe. Whatever I have to do in order to see that happen, I’m doing. If it meant sinking this city in the sea, I’d do it.”
“This is a mistake, sir.”
“Are you saying she isn’t worth it?”
“I’m saying that taking an outside force into a civil war is marching barrels of oil into a fire. Crossing the bank to do it means nothing to come back to, even if you did find her.”
“What else am I supposed to do? Sit by and wait?”
“The magistra’s smart. Capable. You could have faith in her.”
“She’s a girl in the middle of a war,” Marcus said, “and we both know what can happen to girls in the middle of wars. I’m going to find her, and I’m going to keep her safe. I’ve never asked you to come with me. If this isn’t something you can do, then it isn’t.”
Yardem’s scowl seemed to change the shape of his bones.
“I’m going to ask you to reconsider this,” he said, his voice low. “The strongbox—”
“Tell me it’s worth more than she is,” Marcus said. “Tell me the bank is worth more than Cithrin.”
They stood in the street. On the horizon, the clouds flicked with lightning, but they were too far away for thunder. Marcus took another bite of his food, and Yardem sighed.
“How do you plan getting to the strongbox, sir?”
“I set who’s on the watch,” Marcus said. “A hammer. A chisel. A cart with a decent team. We know the low roads between here and the Free Cities, or else we can charter a little coast-hugger. Hell, buy a fishing boat and just don’t come back. Could be in Elassae in twenty days. Maccia in considerably less.”
“Still an awfully long way to Camnipol.”
