Daniel Abraham - The Dragon's Path

“Which you aren’t going to explain to me.”

“I’m not,” Marcus agreed.

Qahuar reached over and picked up the little box, cupping it easily in one palm. The lid opened with a clank, uncovering a brass key shorter than a finger bone. Marcus scratched his ear and waited for the man to speak.

“Why do I think this is going to be connected to something disagreeable and embarrassing?” Qahuar asked, making it clear from his tone that an answer would be welcome but wasn’t expected.

“I’m authorized to sign a statement that it’s here at the request of Magistra bel Sarcour,” Marcus said. “Press the key into wax and I’ll put my thumb across it so there’s no question we’re talking about the same one. Anything you like.”

The box closed again. The near-scaled fingertips tapped the oak with a sound like the first hard drops of a thunderstorm.

“I’m prepared to take no for an answer,” Marcus said.

“The magistra and I didn’t part on the best of terms,” Qahuar said, pronouncing his words carefully. “She sent you rather than come herself. I find it hard to believe she’s come to trust me.”

“There’s ways you can trust an enemy you can’t always trust a friend. An enemy’s never going to betray your trust.”

“I think she would say I’d betrayed hers, and I can argue she did mine.”

“Proves my point. You two were being friendly back then,” Marcus said with a smile they both knew he didn’t mean.

A soft knock came at the meeting room door. A full Jasuru woman in robes of grey and scarlet nodded to both men.

“The men from the shipyard, sir.”

Qahuar nodded, and the woman retreated, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

“Going well, that?” Marcus asked.

“Well enough. It will take a year at least to have everything in order, but time moves both ways. Actions can have effects long before they themselves happen.”

“Angry letters from the king of Cabral, for example?”

“Sometimes I wish I’d lost,” Qahuar said. And then, “For more reasons than one. Captain, we’re men well acquainted the world. I think we understand each other. Would you answer a question?”

“You won’t mind if I lie?”

“Not at all. You’re a man whose name is known all through the west. At the head of a private army, you could command any price you ask, but you’re working guard captain for a branch bank. You aren’t open to bribery. And—forgive me—you don’t like me very much.”

“None of that’s a question.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“I’ve loved a lot of people, and the word hasn’t meant the same thing twice,” Marcus said. “The job is to protect her, and I’m going to do the job this time.”

“This time?”

Marcus shrugged and kept quiet. The bastard had gotten him to say more than he meant already. Marcus had to give it; Qahuar was good at what he did. The half-Jasuru stood up, his lips pursed. Slowly, deliberately, he put the box in the pouch at his belt.

“I hope I’m not going to regret this,” he said.

“I expect it won’t matter to you one way or the other,” Marcus said. “For what it’s worth, though, I appreciate your taking it on.”

“You know it’s not as a favor to you?”

“Do.”

Qahuar Em held out a broad hand. Marcus rose to his feet and took it. It was an effort not to squeeze a little hard, just to show he could. The man’s bright green eyes looked amused. And maybe something sadder as well.

“She’s a lucky woman,” Qahuar said.

God, let’s hope so, Marcus thought but didn’t say.

Autumn had come to Porte Oliva overnight. Trees that had been lush and full were dropping leaves that were still green in the center. The sunset winds were loud with their skittering. The bay had turned the color of tea, and stank at midday like a compost heap. The queensmen patrolling the twilight streets wore overcoats of wool and green caps that covered their ears. Marcus walked the narrow streets near the port, feeling the first bite of night’s chill, and decided maybe he liked the city after all.

He found Master Kit and the others in a torchlit courtyard between a taphouse and an inn. Smit and Hornet were still putting the last adjustments on the stage supports while Master Kit barked instructions to them, not even in costume yet. A young woman was pacing behind them. She was fair-haired with large eyes that left Marcus thinking of babies and a tight-bound dress that showed her figure. Her hands were knotted before her, fingers wrestling one another like fighters in a melee.

Marcus walked over to Master Kit. Instead of saying hello, he nodded to the woman.

“New one?”

“Yes,” the old actor said. “I have hope for this one.”

“Had hope for the last one too.”

“Fair enough. I have expectations of this one,” Master Kit said. “Calls herself Charlit Soon, and I find she rehearses wonderfully. Tonight we’ll see how she does with an audience. If she stays through tomorrow, I think I’ve found my full company.”

“And she’s what? Twelve years old?”

“Cinnae blood some generations back,” Master Kit said. “Or that’s the story, anyway. She believes it, and it may even be true.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

“I withhold judgment.”

As if she’d heard them, the new actor glanced over at them and then away. Sandr jumped out the back of the cart and waved to Marcus. Either his fear had faded or he was a decent actor. Marcus waved back. Mikel, thin and weedy as ever, came out from the taphouse with a bucket of sawdust, Cary following behind with a broom.

“I heard rumor you might be leaving Porte Oliva.”

“It’s one possibility,” Master Kit said. “We’ve played here almost an entire theatrical season. I think cities can get full on plays. Show too many, and I believe people become complacent. I don’t want what we do to lose its magic. I was thinking of taking the company up to the queen’s court at Sara-su-mar.”

“Before the winter, or after?”

“I’ll know more after Charlit’s been onstage for a few nights,” Master Kit said. “But probably before. When the ships leave for Narinisle.”

“Well, do what’s right, but I’ll be sorry to see you go.”

“I take it you’re staying for the foreseeable future?” Kit said. Mikel began spreading the sawdust on the flagstone paving of the courtyard to soak up the damp, Cary sweeping along behind him. It seemed like an odd thing to do. The yard was only going to fill up with mud and piss and rain again.

“I can count the foreseeable future in days,” Marcus said. “Weeks at best.”

“You’d be welcome to travel with us,” Master Kit said. “Yardem and Cithrin too. I think we all miss being caravan guards, just a little. It wasn’t a role we’d ever had before, and I don’t expect we will again.”

“Master Kit?” Sandr called from behind the cart. “One of the swords is missing.”

“I believe it’s with Smit’s bandit robe.”

“It isn’t.”

Master Kit sighed, and Marcus clapped him on the shoulder and left him to his work.

Lantern flames and barn heat made the interior of the taproom warmer than the streets. The scent of roasting pork and beer competed with the less pleasant smell of close-packed bodies. Marcus kept one hand on his coins as he walked through the press. With so many distractions and people in so small a space, he’d have been shocked if there wasn’t at least one cutpurse looking for a little luck. He saw Yardem first, sitting at a back table, then as he got closer, Enen and Roach, Cithrin and… Barth. That was his name. The Firstbloods were Corisen Mout and Barth, and Corisen Mout had the bad front tooth. Feeling unaccountably pleased with himself, Marcus sat at the table.