The King's Blood tdatc-2 Page 10

  “Rinál. Maceo Rinál. 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 Pût. 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.”

  “I can recommend some bodyguards,” Marcus said. “I just lost a few that I wish I’d been able to keep, so I even know where there are some swords looking for coin. I can’t go anywhere. I have a job.”

  “You’re still happy working for Cithrin and the bank, then?”

  “Being happy isn’t what makes it a job,” Marcus said. “It’s what I do.”

  “How long is your contract?”

  “I work for Cithrin.�
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  Kit’s eyebrows came together, knotting up like caterpillars.

  “I see.”

  “I can find you good men,” Marcus said.

  “I don’t want good men. I want you,” Kit said, then laughed. Despite his anxiety, he had a warm laugh. “Oh, I think that didn’t come out the way I meant. I wish you would agree to this, Marcus. I don’t want to force the issue.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “I could,” Kit said. “And I am tempted to. But I consider you a friend, and I choose not to. I hope that carries some weight. I have some preparation still to do. I will stay nearby as long as I can, in case you have a change of heart. I would, however, appreciate it if we could keep my presence quiet.”

  “Is someone hunting for you?”

  “Yes,” Kit said and took another long bite of his cider.

  The birthmarked woman came forward, pointing to their cups. Marcus shook his head. He didn’t need more alcohol.

  “If you need help, I’ll do what I can for you during the quiet days when the bank doesn’t need me,” Marcus said. “That’s the best I’ve got.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  For a moment, Marcus was silent, searching for some other word to say. Instead, he clapped the man on the shoulder and left his half-drunk cup on the bench beside him. It wasn’t a long walk to the counting house, but Marcus took it slowly. He hadn’t had the opportunity to refuse work since he’d taken up with Cithrin bel Sarcour and her bank. As he stepped around the horse shit in the street and passed the queensmen in their uniforms of green and gold, it occurred to him for the first time that he might have already taken the last contract of his life.

  Working for the bank had no clear ending, no keep to be guarded through the summer or taken by autumn. His men weren’t soldiers but guards. Not even guards, sometimes, but a private force. Thumb-breakers for a moneylender. That wasn’t work that had to end.

  For a moment, he imagined himself decades in the future, walking down these same streets. Time would take his hair or turn it white. His joints would thicken and ache. Perhaps he’d find a woman who could put up with his moods and memories. He could work the company until he became so domestic and old and comfortable that he was nothing more than a mascot. The man who’d moved the world once, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him now. A future rolled out before him so clearly, he felt he could reach out and touch the old man’s shoulder.

  He had to stop for a moment and look up at the sky. This was what Canin Mise felt sitting in his debtor’s box, buried with his face in the air. This was what death was like. He almost turned back, going to find Master Kit and the cider and whatever madness had taken the old man, only because it wouldn’t be the story he’d seen before him.

  But it would mean leaving Cithrin. The counting house was only a couple of streets farther on, and he made himself walk there through simple will. Yardem was waiting for him outside, pacing anxiously.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is there anything—”

  “No, Yardem, there’s nothing. Nothing at all, ever, anywhere.”

  The Tralgu put his ears back. Marcus wanted to see anger in the man’s eyes or hurt or something besides concern. Concern looked too much like pity.

  “We’ve been doing very well, sir. The bank’s solid. The company’s underfunded just now, but they’re loyal and well trained. Pyk’s an annoyance more than a problem. If you look at where we’ve come since Ellis—”

  “You’re not about to feed me some hairwash about how my soul’s a circle, and I’m at the top turning down, are you?”

  Yardem’s hesitation meant yes.

  “No, sir,” he said.

  Clara

  Thankfully, Jorey managed to deflect Geder Palliako from using his friends from the Keshet, and so the ceremony was at the high temple, and scheduled for the day after Canl Daskellin’s fireshow had opened the season. It allowed very little time, however, to follow all the forms. Clara had arranged two dinners with Lady Skestinin, and one with both families. Lord Skestinin hadn’t arrived until the morning of the event, and had all but abandoned the fleet to manage that much. Barriath had come with him, and Vicarian had special dispensation to leave his studies and attend the ceremony as well, so all her boys were there on the day. The chances were fair that they would even behave themselves for the most part. For Sabiha’s sake more than Jorey’s.

  In fact, if Jorey had chosen a lover specifically to make his brothers behave, he could hardly have done better. The hint of scandal and disapproval that hung over the occasion would, Clara thought, bring the boys together where a match with someone above reproach would have begged for teasing. And really, once the teasing started, there were lines the boys would cross before they knew they existed.

  Elisia, on the other hand, had sent regrets. As odd as it felt to hope her daughter was ill, Clara preferred to believe she really did have the flux. People recovered from the flux, after all. Shame and disloyalty were harder to overcome. But that was a problem for another day. The work at hand was more than enough to keep her occupied.

  The temple itself was perfect.

  The great circle of the floor was white marble carved generations ago and worn smooth as water. The altar stood black and green in the center, the great vaulted dome rising above it. The archways were carved as dragon’s wings, surrounding and enveloping the wide, white air. Clara had instructed her servants to harvest boughs of the cherry trees from her own gardens. The leaves were few and weak, but the blossoms pulled the white of the stone into their petals. The benches all around the circumference sported silk cushions in the colors of the houses for whom they were reserved, red and gold and brown and black and indigo. And at the front, in the places of honor, chairs of worked copper for the girl’s family and bronze for her own. And an extra seat in silver with the grey and blue of House Palliako where Geder and Prince Aster would sit.

  Walking through it now, with only hours before the event itself, Clara’s footsteps echoed. The silk damask of her gown whispered. She walked to the chair she would take during the ceremony and looked up into the huge, unseeing eyes of the dragon staring back at her. As with her friends in the high circles of court, her piety had always been another kind of etiquette. God was, and because of that it would be rude to sleep during the high chant or scratch during the conse-cration. Now, staring up, she felt something between sorrow and hope struggling in her, and lifted her hand to the dragon.

  “Let them be happy with each other,” she said.

  “Do you think they won’t be?” Dawson said from the columns before her.

  He wore black and gold today, the colors of the Undying City. Against the pale stone, the cloth seemed richer and darker, like a fold cut from the midnight sky. Clara smiled at him.

  “I hope they will. That’s all. And since I’m powerless, I do what one does when one is powerless.”

  “Pray?”

  She held out her arms as if presenting an example. He walked across the stone, out from under the stone dragon’s shadow. He looked tired and pleased and handsome. He put an arm around her waist and turned to look where she was looking. Clara leaned into him. His arms were as solid and strong now as they had been one day, many, many years before.

  “Let them be happy with each other,” he said, his words echoing against the stone. But of course, his prayer wasn’t to the dragon or to God. It was an offering to her, a statement of complicity. “Do you remember when it was our turn to stand there?”

  “I do,” she said. “Well, parts of it. I’d been drinking wine for courage, and I may have crossed over into tipsy.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, you did.”

  She leaned her head against his.

  “Am I needed?” she asked.

  “You are. The Palliako boy’s entirely over his head, and Jorey needs to start seeing to his own preparations.”

  Clara took a deep breath and straightened her spine.

 
“Lead me to the battle lines, my dear,” she said.

  As with any spring wedding where the wind allowed, the feast was held in the temple grounds. Clara’s count was five hundred invited guests, but the press made it seem closer to a thousand. By tradition, Skestinin decorative cloth was tied to the tree branches, and slaves of several races stood in ceremonial cages, singing anthems to Antea and God and the return of spring. Clara found Jorey standing guard over Geder Palliako at one such where a tiny Cinnae girl, so thin and pale she seemed spun from sugar, worked her ribs like a bellows, chanting out a proud, rousing song in a language Clara didn’t recognize.

  The problem was obvious at a glance. Canl Daskellin’s daughter, Sanna, was smiling ice at the eldest of Bannien’s girls while Nesin Pyrellin looked on the edge of tears. A flicker of embarrassment pinched Clara’s heart, and she wondered if she had ever been so obvious and undignified herself. She truly hoped not.

  It wasn’t entirely their fault, of course. The life of a woman in court was always bound and defined by marriage, and in a way it was a blessing. She’d taken her turn in the temple before her twentieth name day, and ever since then her place in court had been fixed. She was Lady Kalliam, Baroness of Osterling Fells, but she could as easily have been Baroness of Nurning or merely Lady Mivekilli, wife to the Earl of Lowport. In any case, her place and rank would be determined, and she would have been just as free to make what life she wished within those bounds. Without Dawson at her side, she would still have been Clara. But what that meant would have changed. These girls looked at Geder Palliako and saw the opportunity for stability and status and power. They did because they had been taught to, and because they were right.

  Still, they couldn’t be permitted to ruin the day over it.

  “Baron Ebbingbaugh!” Clara said, swooping down and hauling Geder’s arm around her own. “I have been looking everywhere for you. You don’t mind if I appropriate Lord Palliako, dear?”

  “That would be fine, Mother,” Jorey said, his eyes offering the thanks he couldn’t say aloud.

  Clara smiled and angled Geder away, guiding him carefully enough that it wasn’t obvious he was being led. There was an alcove at the side of the temple where she might plausibly have a moment’s conversation, though for the life of her, she didn’t know what it would be about. The odd thing about Geder Palliako—the thing that no one else commented upon—was how much and often he changed. She’d been vaguely aware of him the way you were of people at the periphery of the court before he and Jorey had gone off to the Free Cities. She’d seen him when he returned from there and danced with him at his revel. He’d seemed stunned and lost and amazed, like a child watching a cunning man turn water to sand for the first time. Then he’d disappeared for that long, terrible summer, and returned thinner and harder and confident. And knowing, it seemed, all there was to know about poor Phelia Maas and her husband. And now here he was after a winter in his new holdings with a bit more flesh under his chin and carrying a cloud of anxiety with him so thick it dampened the skin.