Daniel Abraham - The Dragon's Path

Magister Imaniel had often talked about the tools of memory. Ink was best, but writing the figures down and sneaking them out of the house was a risk she didn’t have to take. Fifteen ships of two dozen men.

“At the age of fifteen, she’d had two dozen men,” Cithrin said to herself.

Sixteen hundredths without guarantee, or nineteen with. So the guarantee was worth three.

“Sixteen for the company, and three more for love.”

Two thousand to begin, with an estimated profit of five hundred each year of a ten-year agreement.

“She gave two thousand kisses, took five hundred back, and died alone ten years after that.”

There were more details in the scroll—the specifications of the ships, the names of individual captains, the routes the trade would be encouraged to take—and she read as much of it as she could, but at the base, she had what she needed.

She put the scroll back where it had been, then put the lantern in its place and blew the flame out. Used to the light as she’d become, the darkness seemed absolute. The smell of spent wick was acrid and sharp. She closed her eyes and, tracing fingers along the wall, found her way to the door. She slipped into the corridor, turned the lock, and, almost skipping, went back to Qahuar’s sleeping chamber. She put the key in the corner where she’d found it, stripped off the tunic, and slipped quickly back into bed.

Qahuar murmured and reached out an arm to drape over her belly.

“You’re cold,” he said, the words thick.

“I’ll be warm soon,” she said, and felt his smile as much as she saw it. He nuzzled against her, and she tried to let herself relax into him. She closed her eyes and repeated her rhyme in the privacy of her mind.

At the age of fifteen, she’d had two dozen men, sixteen for company and three more for love. She gave two thousand kisses, took five hundred back, and died alone ten years after that.

Well, you look exhausted,” Captain Wester said, leaning against the wall beside the pot of tulips where the old gambler’s caller used to stand. “I was starting to think we’d have to put together a raiding party, take you back by force.”

“I told you I wouldn’t be back,” Cithrin said, walking past him toward her private entrance. He followed her as if she’d invited him.

“You’re supposed to be meeting with that woman from the needlemakers’ guild at midday. She’s likely on her way to that coffee house right now. Unless you’re planing to wear that same dress—”

“I can’t see her,” Cithrin said, walking up the stairs. She heard his footsteps falter, then hurry to catch up. When he spoke, his voice was careful and polite. It sounded like he was talking from half a mile away.

“Do you want to give her a reason?”

“Send someone. Tell her I’m ill.”

“All right.”

Cithrin sat down on her divan, scowling up at the man. His arms were crossed over his chest, his mouth pinched. He wasn’t really much older than Qahuar Em. Cithrin pulled off one of her shoes and massaged her foot. The sole was filthy. Her dress hung from her as if the cloth itself was exhausted and sweating.

“I didn’t sleep,” she said. “I can’t help her anyway.”

“If you say so,” Wester said, nodding curtly. He turned to leave, and her sudden rush of distress flooded her. She hadn’t known how badly she didn’t want to be alone.

“Did everything go well while I was gone?” she said, her voice tripping out of her.

Wester stopped at the head of the stairs.

“Went fine,” he said.

“Are you angry with me, Captain?”

“No,” he said. “I’m going to go tell the needlemakers’ woman that you’re too ill to see her. I take it we’ll send her a note when you’re feeling better?”

Cithrin pulled off her other shoe and nodded. Wester went down the stairs. The door clacked closed behind him. Cithrin lay back. The night had been everything she’d hoped, but the first blue light of dawn had left her exhausted. Her body felt limp and shaky the way it had all those nights with the caravan when sleep had escaped her. She’d convinced herself that those days were over, but she’d been wrong. And now, say it or not, Wester was angry, and she was surprised how much his disapproval stung.

She thought of calling him back, of explaining that she’d allowed herself to be seduced for a reason. That going to Qahuar Em’s bed had only been a ploy. The more she rehearsed the words, the worse they sounded. Voices rose up from the floor beneath her. The guards that Wester had hired. From the sound, they were playing at dice. Her spine ached. Someone below her shouted in dismay, and others groaned along in sympathy. She closed her eyes, hoping that being back in her own rooms would relax her enough that she could rest. Instead, her mind jumped and hopped, faster and faster, like a ball rolling down an infinite hill.

Fifteen ships could be split into three equal groups of five or else five of three, so perhaps Qahuar’s clan was expecting the merchant ships to divide into three major ports—likely Carse, Lasport, and Asinport. But what if they were expecting the trade to go on past Asterilhold to Antea or Sarakal or Hallskar? Two dozen men in a single ship wasn’t a small thing, but would Lyoniean sailors do well in the colder waters of the north? Could she argue, with her ties to Carse, that she’d be able to provide ships more experienced in the native waters? And if she made the argument, would it be true?

And why had Opal betrayed her? And why had God let Magister Imaniel die? And Cam? And her parents? And did Sandr still want her? Would Cary still be her friend? Did Master Kit still approve of who and what she was? What did other people do when they had no friends and their lovers were their enemies? There had to be some better way to do things.

The tears welled up in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She didn’t feel sad. She barely felt anything at all besides tired and annoyed with herself. She was suffering some sort of little fit, and she could wait until it passed. The dice game shifted, and two men’s voices caught up a tune, coming together and apart.

Cithrin forced herself to sitting. Then standing. Then she stripped off last night’s clothes and put on a simple skirt and blouse. She tied back her hair until she saw the little bite marks that Qahuar had left on her neck and let her hair back down. She filled the little basin by her bedside, washed her face. The paints Cary had left were there, and Cithrin considered remaking Magistra Cithrin of the Medean bank. She decided against it—she had little enough energy as it was—and went downstairs.

When she opened the door, the company went quiet. The two Firstblood men looked at each other and then away. The paler of them was blushing visibly. The Kurtadam man nodded.

“Sorry about that, Magistra,” he said. “Didn’t think you were here.”

Cithrin waved the concern away.

“Yardem?” she said.

“In the back room, Magistra,” the Kurtadam said.

Cithrin walked past the guards to the rear, then through into the darkness. Yardem Hane lay on a long, low cot, fingers laced over his belly. His eyes were closed, his ears folded and soft. Cithrin was just about to turn around, putting the conversation off for another time, when he spoke.

“Help you, ma’am?”

“Um. Yes. Yardem,” she said. “You know the captain as well as anybody.”

“That’s true,” the Tralgu said, his eyes still closed and his voice calm.

“I think I may have upset him,” she said.

“You wouldn’t be the first, ma’am. If it gets to be a problem, the captain will tell you.”

“All right.”

“Anything else, ma’am?”

The Tralgu didn’t move apart from the ride and fall of his chest.