Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

They approached the fivefold city from the east, passing through farmlands and pastures Marcus had never seen. The commons were so thick with tents that it was as if new towns were forming within the city, and men stood in lines at the larger houses, negotiating hospitality from the locals or else begging it. Everywhere, the word was that Antea’s army was on the march, that they would be in Suddapal very, very soon.

Displacement was a part of war, and Marcus had lived his life around it. It was a tissue of misery, fear, and uncertainty. Children would be sleeping hungry and in the streets tonight and tomorrow and likely for months if not years to come, provided nothing worse happened.

“We can go to Ela and Epetchi,” Kit said. It took Marcus a moment to place the names as belonging to the café owners they’d stayed with before leaving for Lyoneia. “They’ll take us in if they can.”

“You should stay with them for a few days,” Marcus agreed.

Kit shot a glance at him, and Marcus shrugged. There wasn’t anything more to say. They both understood why he’d chosen Suddapal. When they reached the café, it was already full to the top with refugees, but they found room for Kitap. And they knew the way to the branch of the Medean bank. It was in the western end of the cities, and a way inland. Marcus thanked them, bought a bowl of charred mutton with a few coins Kit gave him, and walked out into the city.

For months, he’d traveled with Kit. In the unfamiliar jungles of deep Lyoneia and the unforgiving mountains and planes of the Keshet, over the Inner Sea and back. The sense of being alone again, even on the busy streets and crowded commons of the city, surprised him and left him comforted. He wondered how much he’d been worried about carrying Kit and keeping him from despair. He wouldn’t have said he was much concerned, except that now he felt relieved in his isolation. Or maybe it was only that he now didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t hunting.

Yardem Hane was one of the best fighters Marcus had ever known, and the acuity of the Tralgu’s great, mobile ears had saved them from ambush more than once. Marcus’s advantage was that he knew his old companion as well as he was known by him, and Yardem didn’t know he’d come. He would only have one opportunity.

The compound of the Medean bank in Suddapal was a wide, low group of buildings around a vast yard. It looked more like a small, self-contained village than a bank. The streets were wide, which was good in that he could get a clear line of sight without coming too near the place, and bad in that there wasn’t cover enough to safely move in close. He found a place in the shadows of an alley and sat patiently, his face hidden and his shoulders sloped in dejection. Another doomed wanderer in a city sick with them. He waited. He watched. He noted the rhythms of the compound and its people. For a large place, it was well watched. He needed to wait until Yardem stepped out.

Or until everyone else did.

Three days later was Tenthday. The population of the city shed their shoes and marched together through the streets to the temples. Marcus watched them come out. Among the Timzinae guardsmen, Enen the Kurtadam stood out. But not so much as Cithrin. Marcus felt the sight of her like a blow. She looked taller. No, that wasn’t right. Not taller, but older. Her pale hair was pulled back and her green velvet gown was well cut without being boastful. She was walking arm in arm with an older Timzinae woman, her expression sharp with concentration. Seeing her from the distance of the alley was dreamlike and strange. The last time he’d been this near to her, she’d been leaving for Carse and telling him that taking him to Northcoast would be a mistake. If he’d fought against that, insisted that he stay with her, how different the world might be. He forced himself to look down for fear his gaze would draw hers. But she was here. She was well enough, it seemed. That was as it should be. But it didn’t change what he needed to do.

Yardem wasn’t among the temple-bound throng. He’d stayed back, then, to guard the compound. Marcus forced himself to wait, but the tension growing in his back and legs made it difficult. The time had come. When the last of the household had turned the farthest corner, Marcus counted his breaths to a hundred, then did it again, then stood. The sword hung heavy across his back. He crossed the wide road to the compound’s gate, then walked down the wall until he found a place low enough to vault it.

He found Yardem Hane on a low porch, a book in his massive hands and his ears canted forward. Marcus pulled the blade clear of its scabbard, keeping a finger against the steel so that it would not ring. The angle of his approach kept the Tralgu’s wide back toward him. He reached the edge of the porch in silence. A fast lunge would be all it took. Even a shallow cut, and the sword’s venom would do the rest.

Marcus put the sole of his foot against the bare dirt and twisted. Yardem’s ears swiveled back at the sound, but he didn’t look up.

“Sir,” he said.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You betrayed my trust.”

Slowly, carefully, being certain no movement could be mistaken for an attack, Yardem placed a twig between the book’s pages and let them close.

“I did.”

“How long were you planning to let me rot in that little prison?”

Yardem put a hand to either side and slowly lifted himself up to standing. He was tall, even for a Tralgu. He had the old sword at his side, but his fingers didn’t touch its hilt. His earrings jingled.

“Until Cithrin came back, sir.”

“And if she hadn’t?”

“I’d have given myself a fair head start,” Yardem said. “All respect, sir. You were going to loot her bank and hire a company to march into the middle of someone else’s civil war.”

“What of it?”

“It was a bad idea.”

Marcus tightened his grip on the blade, his mouth bending into a scowl. For three long breaths together, they stood motionless. He felt the rage in his breast reach its high-water mark and then recede.

He pressed his lips together, and then lowered the blade.

“Fair point,” he said. “So. Where do we stand?”

“Pyk Usterhall’s running the Porte Oliva branch. Cithrin’s agreed with Komme Medean to a year’s apprenticeship with Magistra Isadau, and then a year back in Porte Oliva. Only it’s not certain we’ll make the full year here. Antea’s expected to invade at any moment. They’ve sent runners to say if we hand over the people responsible for the coup in Camnipol last year, they’ll leave, but no one seems to know who that would be. We’ve sent most of the bank’s capital out of the city, but the local magistra’s dedicated to staying and helping people get out of harm’s way for as long as she can. Cithrin’s apparently decided to do the same. And Roach just got married, only we’re calling him Halvill now.”

“Halvill?”

“His name.”

“Ah.”

“You, sir?”

“Well, the war’s actually being driven by a set of mad priests who have power over truth and lies. The plan was to kill the spider goddess they worship and take away their power, only it turns out she’s a figment of their collective imagination. Kit used to be one of them, but he turned apostate. He’s at a café down by the port having what’s left of his faith collapse around him.”

“I see.”

“Oh,” Marcus said, holding up the blade. “Magic sword.”

“Full year.”

“Has been,” Marcus said. Then, “It’s good to be back, though.”

“Happy to have you, sir.”

Cithrin

There are two books on my bedside table,” Isadau said. Months of close contact let Cithrin see her anxiety. The others—even Yardem—almost certainly didn’t.