“I don’t know,” she said, sitting. “Seems like the same place to me, almost.”
“Yes, I suppose I see that,” he said.
“Are you … are you really you?” she asked. “I mean … I don’t know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” he said. “I carried a secret with me for many years, and now it’s uncovered. It must change how you see me, but I feel like the same man I always have been. My affection for you is what it was. My fears for the future haven’t changed. I feel more threatened, I suppose. But that may only be truth. When your friend Isadau said I was an abomination—”
“She didn’t mean it,” Cithrin said.
“She did, Cithrin. She very much did. And I think I understand why.”
A cricket took up its song, and then another. The chirping was thinner than it had been at midsummer. Fewer insects and a slower song.
“Marcus left when I was gone away to Camnipol.”
“Yes,” Kit said. “That must have been hard for you, his disappearing that way.”
“I was fine,” Cithrin said. Then, “God, you know that was a lie, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Kit said. “But it’s one that speaks well of you both.”
“Having him back … just back. It’s like Magister Imaniel popping up out of the grave and coming to the dinner table. Magister Imaniel or else …”
“Or else your father?”
“I didn’t know my father,” Cithrin said.
“Ah yes. I remember that,” Kit said. They were silent for a time.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Kit said.
“Basrahip. The priests. If they were looking for something, what would it be?”
“What do you mean, looking for?”
“Sending out hunting parties. Looking in the empty places in the world.”
“Well,” Kit said, then took a long, deep breath, giving himself time to think. “I think we have established that I may not have perfect insight into the workings of the priesthood. But I would think they were looking for other remnants of the dragons’ power. Something like the Timzinae or the sword that Marcus and I recovered. Are they? Looking, I mean.”
“I think so,” Cithrin said. “We’ve been getting reports from someone in Camnipol. We aren’t sure who. But one of the things he said was that there were expeditions going out. And one of them is being led by a Dartinae man I almost worked with in Porte Oliva. He gave me a dragon’s tooth.”
“Did he really?” Master Kit asked.
“I think he did,” Cithrin said. “I suppose it could be a fake.”
“I wonder …” Kit said.
“I could show it to you.”
“What? Oh, thank you, but no. I was remembering something Marcus said about men like me being driven into hiding once. A very long time ago. If my former companions are searching for something, I imagine it’s because they want to possess it or destroy it. Either way … What do we know about this man in Camnipol?”
“Almost nothing,” Cithrin said. “If Isadau doesn’t object, I can show you the reports.”
“I would very much like that.”
Cithrin felt a thickness in her throat, a sudden welling up of sorrow. Master Kit’s brows furrowed and he took her hand. Cithrin shook her head until she could find her voice. When she did speak, the words were thick.
“Now that he’s started this, he’s not going to stay,” she said. “Is he?”
Comprehension washed over Master Kit’s face. He looked down.
“I expect Captain Wester will remain here to protect the compound as best he can until the city’s fallen. Beyond that, I don’t know,” he said, and then chuckled ruefully. “In truth, Cithrin, these days I feel I don’t know anything.”
The armies of Antea arrived in the morning unopposed. It was understood that the fighting would be in Kiaria, where the soldiers had gone. Even a token resistance to the invaders in Suddapal would have meant a few dozen corpses and nothing more. They didn’t even try. The morning sun slanted down over the roofs and tent-thick commons. The Antean carts rolled through the streets, and soldiers marched behind them. Timzinae refugees who had left their homes behind to escape this same army sat quietly at the sides of the roads. Cithrin stood by the compound’s wall and watched. After so long, the mass of Firstblood faces seemed wrong. Out of place.
“Don’t stare, ma’am,” Yardem said. “Someone might take offense.”
“And what if they do?”
Marcus answered. His voice was tired.
“There’s still going to be a sack. If we’re lucky, it’ll be a short one, and centered someplace else.”
“What?” Cithrin said. “The soldiers just loot the place? Go through like bandits and take what they want?”
“If we’re lucky,” Marcus said again.
“We’ll stand against them,” Cithrin said.
“We’ll take everything of value in the compound,” Marcus said, “put it in the yard here, bar the doors, guard the windows, and hope for the best. This is going to be a bad night.”
He was right. It was. Through all the long hours of the night, Cithrin sat with Isadau in the relative safety of her office, reading by a small brass lamp, and remembering none of the words. The guards—Yardem, Enen, Marcus, and even Master Kit included—kept watch. Once, near midnight, voices came from the streets, a mad whooping followed by screams and then the sounds of something large and possibly wooden being broken. Then near dawn, the unmistakable sound of blades. Cithrin felt fear and fatigue grinding in her belly. She wanted badly to be drunk. Even if the worst came, at least she’d be insensible.
The morning air stank of smoke. Plumes of it rose from near the water, and Master Kit watched them with an expression so closed it frightened her. She remembered hearing that he had friends in the city. Their houses might be fueling those fires. Or their bodies.
Isadau stepped into her compound to survey the damage. Half of what they’d left out had been taken, and the other half destroyed. She lifted the remains of a lacquered box, and then let the pieces fall from her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but otherwise her expression could have been carved from stone. This was more than her bank. It was her family’s home. It was her city. That she’d known this would come didn’t seem to pull the blow. She found Marcus and Yardem speaking with Jurin. Marcus nodded in salute. The gesture was familiar, and Cithrin felt herself clinging to it.
“Could have been much worse,” he said. “It was a near thing, but we didn’t lose anyone. And the Anteans are all falling back. Worst may be over.” Cithrin coughed out a mirthless laugh and Marcus nodded as if agreeing with her. In the street, someone was wailing. “Likely, they’ll send an order. The bank’s powerful enough they’ll want someone at the naming of the new protector.”
“Isadau?” Cithrin asked.
“It’s who I’d chose,” Marcus said.
“I’ll go with her.”
Marcus frowned and Yardem’s ears went forward, but neither of them made an objection.
“Come back when it’s done,” was all that Marcus said.
Cithrin went back to her rooms and changed into a formal dress and put up her hair. The city might be conquered, but the Medean bank was more than a city; it was the world. She would not pretend to be humbled. When she was done, she touched her lips and cheeks with rouge, vomited into the chamberpot, and applied the rouge again. The cut of the collar didn’t call for a necklace, but she put one on anyway: the silver bird in flight that Salan had given her. No one else might know the defiance it signified, but she would. When the order came, carried by a sneering Firstblood in Antean uniform, she accepted it on Isadau’s behalf. It was, after all, addressed to the magistra of the branch, and technically she fit the description. They were to come to the central square of the third city at noon. Lord Marshal Ternigan would accept their formal surrender of the city and introduce the new protector of Suddapal. Also every household was to surrender any weaned children younger than five against the good conduct of the city. There would be no exceptions made. Any children not turned over to the protector’s men would
