Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

“You look handsome, Yardem,” she said. “You can cut quite a figure when you put your mind to it.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Yardem said. “Wanted to speak with you before the revels began, though.”

Cithrin glanced back toward her room in query. Is this a private conversation? Yardem nodded, and they went back inside. Yardem sat on the end of her bed, his elbows resting on his knees. She leaned against the door. She could have taken the chair, but she didn’t want to disarrange the drape of her dress.

“All respect, ma’am, but I think it’s time we considered leaving Suddapal.”

“Is there word from Inenetai? Did the Anteans break the siege?”

“Not so far as I know,” Yardem said. “But there’s other news. Karol Dannien’s taken contract to man the walls at Kiaria. They’ll be boarding up his school at the week’s end and going north. I don’t think there’s any question that the war’s coming here, and if he’s going, it means it’s likely to be here soon.”

“And better if we weren’t here to greet it,” Cithrin said.

“Hear it’s lovely in Porte Oliva this time of year,” Yardem said grimly.

Outside her window, glass shattered and someone laughed. She crossed her arms.

“You know I can’t go,” she said. “Komme Medean was clear about the terms. A year’s what he called for. It hasn’t been half that. If I walk away now, I’ll have broken my contract with him.”

“All respect, but he didn’t know he was sending you into the wrong side of a sack.”

“No,” Cithrin said, “he knew he was sending me to a bank. Navigating wars is part of what we do. Or floods. Or plagues. It’s not as if the business only runs on sunny days. If I leave now, Komme will be right to wonder what I’d do if something happened in Porte Oliva. I wouldn’t leave there, and I won’t here.”

Yardem’s ears turned back, but he didn’t say more.

The yard of the compound was bright with fireflies, and the first of the torches were being lit. The men and women who came for the party weren’t the highest in the five cities. The affair might have been held by the Medean bank and Magistra Isadau, but it was still the wedding of a minor guard. Instead, there were carpenters and brewers, dyers and shipwrights. The artisans and small merchants of Suddapal come to glory together. The women wore flowing dresses or fashioned metal corsets or the stained trousers and blouses they’d left work in. The men wore formal robes of silk brocade or rough-cut canvas belted with lengths of rope. No one was overdressed for the occasion, and no one too casual. It wasn’t possible to be.

The compound’s servants carried out a wide wooden table, then hurried back to fill it with plates of glazed ham and fresh shrimp and roast lamb. Bottles of wine were opened and tuns of beer tapped. And instead of retreating back to their quarters, the servants stayed in the yard. They didn’t mix with the higher orders of guests, but neither did they avoid them. The music rose with the darkness, bright strings strumming against each other, mixing melody and percussion until the stars themselves seemed to throb with it. Cithrin ate a little, drank a lot. The constant knot in her belly, so familiar that she hardly noticed it anymore, loosened a notch, and she felt the blood warm in her cheeks. She heard a woman whooping at the edge of the yard, and a moment later saw a band of ten men leading a cow straddled by Isadau’s sister, Kani. She was listing wildly, and the cow looked, to Cithrin’s admittedly tipsy eyes, long-suffering and patient. A young Timzinae man she didn’t recognize asked Cithrin to dance with him, and she found that she was, in fact, drunk enough to do so.

It wasn’t about Halvill or Maha. It wasn’t about Isadau or paying respects to the bank. It was about fear, and the joy that comes in the shadow of fear. It was about celebrating a night when Suddapal was free, and the clear knowledge that such nights might be countably few. It was as intoxicating as the wine.

When she paused to find some water and meat and give her head a moment to clear, she saw Yardem standing at the entrance to the compound, his ears canted forward. Magistra Isadau stood before him, looking up, her arms folded. She didn’t need to hear the words to know what they were saying. She was gathering herself up, ready to go explain her decision to stay and dress Yardem down for interfering, when a voice speaking her name interrupted her.

Salan, Jurin’s son, stood before her. In the light from the torches, he looked older than he was. He held himself upright, his bearing almost military, and his clothes had the look of a uniform without actually being one.

“Magistra Cithrin,” he said again. His breath smelled of wine, and he spoke with the careful diction that came of consciously not slurring his words. “I hoped I might have a word with you.”

Oh, this can’t be good , Cithrin thought. But she only said, “Of course, Salan. How can I help you?”

The boy frowned. Cithrin felt her heart squeeze a little tighter with dread. It was such a pleasant evening, and a young man humiliating himself wasn’t going to improve it. If she had excused herself, maybe she could have avoided this for them both, but now it was too late.

“I know that I am a child to you. My …” He looked down, searching for a word. The nictitating membranes slid closed and open again. “My affection toward you isn’t something to be taken seriously. I understand that.”

“Salan—”

“I have volunteered to go with Karol Dannien and his company to Kiaria. I leave within the week. And I didn’t want to leave with you thinking of me as the idiot boy with the hopeless puppy love. It’s not how I want to be remembered. If I could choose to feel differently about you, I would. If I could choose not to embarrass you and myself, I would. I don’t mean to be laughable.”

“I haven’t laughed,” Cithrin said. “Credit me that much.”

“I … of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse. I only wanted …” He shook his head, then held out his clenched fist, knuckles up. It took Cithrin a moment to realize he was giving her something. She put out her hand, and he released his grip. A thin strand of silver snaked onto her palm, a tiny worked figure. She held the necklace up. The figure was a thin silver bird, its wings outstretched. Cithrin shook her head, about to refuse the gift, when the boy spoke again. “Captain Dannien says we aren’t to bring personal items with us. I was hoping you could hold this safe for me. Until the war’s over.”

Until the war’s over.

The Antean armies hadn’t crossed into Elassae. Inentai, at last word, hadn’t fallen. And still, it was a given that the war would come. And its end was so uncertain that until the war’s over could sound like forever . Salan’s black eyes met hers. If she laughed now, he would hate her. He would be right to.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be pleased to.”

“Thank you, Magistra,” he said, with a small bow, then hesitated, turned, and walked stiffly away. Cithrin fastened the necklace, letting the small silver bird rest just below her collarbone. It was so light and fine, she could almost forget it was there. Almost.

The music and dancing went on, the wine and the beer. The night grew a few degrees cooler. Cithrin willed herself to enjoy it, to throw herself into the revelry and celebrate Halvill and Maha being young and stupid and making decisions that would shape the rest of their lives without so much as a moment’s consideration. Then she remembered a time not so many years ago when she’d lain down beside an ice-bound pond with an actor. If God hadn’t sent Marcus Wester at the right moment, she might have Sandr’s son on her hip right now, so perhaps she wasn’t in a position to pass judgment.