other branches. It was an account of all her sins against commerce and profit, and she took as much pride in it as she could.
She wished that Komme Medean were there. Or Paerin Clark. Someone she could talk with about her time commanding the branch. She thought it had all been the right thing, but what if there had been some better way to do the things she’d done, and some way to build on it moving ahead? Geder wouldn’t be able to stay in Suddapal forever. Perhaps he’d only come for a few days, and then go back to Antea and his court. Certainly it wouldn’t be longer than the winter. When he left, she would go back to her work. Unless he wanted her go with him. Would he insist? She imagined herself living in Camnipol, sleeping and eating in the Kingspire, and wondered what it would be like to leave the books and the bank behind. It seemed that it would leave very little room for her.
The compound of the Medean bank was also far from the only place in the city preparing itself for the arrival of its master. The protector’s guards were driving teams of enslaved Timzinae through the streets, cleaning away the winter-killed plants and paving roads that had never known stone. The houses and temples that had burned in the sack were finally being torn down or rebuilt. The few times that Cithrin went out into the city, she felt a sense of dislocation seeing the changes and improvements. It was as if the real city had been spirited away in the night and replaced with the Antean image of what Suddapal should be. It would have been comic if it hadn’t meant that the city as it had been was gone. That a thing once changed could only change again, and not live backward.
That afternoon she was in her room wearing a silk shift and trying on dresses in which she could meet Geder Palliako. A long-sleeved green velvet was her favorite at present, but there was a butter-yellow one with a more Antean cut that displayed her figure better, even though the color was fairly hideous. The scratch came at the doorway as she held the yellow to her chest and tried to decide whether there was a scarf she could add that forgave its failings.
“Come in,” she said, half aware that she wasn’t, strictly speaking, dressed and she didn’t know whom she’d just invited in. It wasn’t something she cared about.
Yardem entered. He was wearing leathers much like his training armor, only with touches of green at the throat and shoulders. Cithrin wondered what Geder would make of it if he arrived to find her encased in armor. The idea was almost funny.
“Magistra,” Yardem said. “How are you?”
“Debased and horrified,” she said lightly, making a joke of it. “And you?”
“Well enough. I needed to speak with you for a moment about the Lord Regent.”
“Speak away. But first, look at these. Which do you think would be the better one to wear when he comes?”
Yardem flicked a jingling ear and sat on the bed.
“Green,” he said. “It’s warmer. The Lord Regent’s forces will be here in the morning.”
“They will,” Cithrin said.
“The plan is you make yourself into Palliako’s bed slave.”
“I prefer the term consort,” Cithrin said, putting down the yellow and picking up the green. The color really was much better. Green it was, then.
“I’m going to ask you to reconsider.”
“What? You mean about Geder?”
“Yes.”
The Tralgu looked up at her. His dark eyes were unreadable. Cithrin felt a knot in her throat and coughed to clear it.
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s the right thing to do.”
Yardem nodded, but his frown undercut the motion. “Walk through that with me?”
Cithrin started undoing the pearl buttons that ran down the green dress’s back, her fingernail clicking against the hard little spheres. The third one was a degree larger than the others, and she had to force it through its hole.
“I have something Geder Palliako has decided he wants. In exchange for it, I can help more people. If I can just play the role, the rewards in information alone will be beyond any normal price.”
“If,” he said.
“You think I can’t maintain the subterfuge?” Cithrin said with a grin as she stepped into the dress and pulled the sleeves onto her arms.
“I don’t,” Yardem said. “A year ago, I think you could have. But not now.”
“You don’t give me credit,” she said. “Button this for me, would you?”
Yardem rose with something like a sigh and began fastening the stays and buttons up her back. It was possible that the green wasn’t elegant enough for the occasion. Cithrin wasn’t certain of the etiquette of giving herself over to the role of Geder’s lover. Maybe a dress wasn’t called for at all. Maybe she should greet him in a little rouge and a smile. She scowled at the thought and pulled the sleeves a bit straighter.
“Well, I think you’re mistaken,” she said. “And considering the good we can do, it’s the obvious risk to take.”
“It’s only a risk if you don’t know the outcome, ma’am,” Yardem said, fixing the last and highest of the buttons. His knuckle brushed the nape of her neck as he finished. “I’d like you to take a moment to pray with me.”
“What?” Cithrin asked, turning toward him. Yardem held out his hands to her, palms up. She hesitated for a moment, then took them. Yardem closed his eyes and lowered his head, and she followed his example. As soon as her eyes were closed, the chaos of her mind whipped at her. She tried to gather herself enough to pray or think kind thoughts or whatever it was she was intended to do, but it was as much as she could manage just to keep from opening her eyes, pulling away, and finding some other small task to distract her. She felt a brief but intense resentment of Yardem for imposing on her this way. She had enough to carry without the additional burden of thinking too closely about it.
Yardem let out a calm breath, and she opened her eyes as he looked up.
“Change your mind, ma’am?”
Sorrow bloomed in her and she moved in, hugging the Tralgu close for a moment before letting him go. “Thank you for trying. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it that you care. But this is what I have to do. I don’t like it and I don’t want it, but this war is what we have. You were the one who told me sex is a woman’s natural weapon.”
Yardem’s ears shot forward.
“I never said that,” he said.
“You did. You’ve just forgotten. It was when we were first going from Vanai to Porte Oliva. We were training, and I kept asking what was a woman’s natural weapon. You said sex was.”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t. We were talking about fighting, and I made the point that on the average, men have longer reach and stronger arms, and weapons are based on reach and strength. A woman who wants to fight has to train harder to come even. I can’t recommend using sex in a melee.”
They were silent for a moment. Something was shifting in Cithrin’s chest. Unwinding like tie rope on a spool losing its tension.
“But,” she began and then wasn’t sure where to go.
Yardem scratched his chin reflectively. “Sling, maybe. Or a short sword. Not sex.”
“But you said—”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Then who did?” Cithrin asked.
“Believe that was Sandr.”
“Oh,” Cithrin said. Then a moment later, “Sandr’s kind of a pig.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
Cithrin looked down. The unwinding sensation in her chest intensified. Something in her was releasing, opening. It felt nauseating and it felt like relief. She pressed her lips together and looked up into Yardem’s face. His expression was as placid and calm as ever.
“Yardem?” she said. “I can’t do this.”
“No, ma’am. You can’t. There’s a ship waiting. I’ve given word to everyone that we’re leaving, so they won’t be caught unprepared. Enen’s packed up all the books and ledgers from the office. We can get whatever else you’d
