Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

To her surprise, Cithrin felt tears in her eyes. She kept her chin high. She might weep, but she wasn’t going to snivel. Yardem spoke for a few moments more about Suddapal and when he had come to the city as a younger man. How it had changed in the years since, and how he had, and how the differences in them both had given him a sense of kinship with it. Then he asked Magistra Isadau to stand, and she spoke about the innate conflict of being a woman of business with her first loyalties to power and profit, and at the same time a citizen of the five cities. And her favorite places within them. Then Jurin spoke about showing his son the cavern at the center of the commons for the first time, and walking with his grandmother to the marketplace the last time she went. He talked of the fear he felt for the children taken by Antea. And soon, Cithrin was making no pretense of dignity, nor was anyone else. One by one, the people stood and spoke or else only sobbed, and Cithrin wept with them.

She didn’t see Yardem come to her side. His hand was simply on hers, and then without knowing how it had happened, he was leading her up to the altar. The faces looked up at her, waiting for her to speak. I can’t do this , she thought, and from the back of her mind a small voice replied, Yes, I can .

“Suddapal wasn’t my city,” she said. “That was Vanai. The Antean army took it … took it from me. And they took the people who raised me and loved me, if anybody did. There was a place by the canal by the bank house where there was a little boy who sold coffee with his father, and they … they took them too. They took everything there and they burned it.”

A sorrow she hadn’t known was there opened in her, vast as oceans, and she hung her head for a moment and Yardem stepped toward her. She put out a hand to stop him, gritted her teeth, and raised her head.

“I haven’t cried. I haven’t mourned. I haven’t let myself be angry for that loss. I never felt it because feeling it would have broken me. And now, with all of you here as witness, I am broken. I am broken, but I’m not dead. And I am not finished .”

The hand that touched her shoulder wasn’t Yardem’s. Magistra Isadau turned Cithrin to her, wrapped her arms around Cithrin’s shaking body, and pulled her close. Cithrin wept, and more than wept. She howled like a baby who’d lost her mother and her father, which she also was. She screamed into the older woman’s flesh, and she did it with half a hundred men and women watching her do it, and she felt no shame.

“Good girl,” Isadau murmured. “Oh, good, good girl. You’ll be fine. Your heart isn’t going to die. You’re fine.”

Cithrin held the Timzinae woman close and would not let her go.

It’s going to fall apart,” Yardem said. “All respect, the network was dangerous when it was only standing up against soldiers, bureaucrats, and cunning men. These tainted priests make it impossible.”

“I know,” Isadau said. “Two of the people who agreed to work with me have already missed meetings. I was able to get word out that if the priest questions you, not to answer any questions. They aren’t lying if they don’t speak.”

Yardem grunted like he had taken a blow. Isadau raised her eyebrows.

“Not speaking can be made difficult,” he said.

The courtyard had turned from lush green to leathery brown as if overnight. Autumn had come to Suddapal, and the crispness of the air said that winter would come quickly behind it. Isadau sat on a wooden stool, her body rigid and tense. Yardem stood at ease, a soldier again instead of a priest. Cithrin’s pacing contrasted with their stillness, but she couldn’t help it. Movement made her thoughts feel clearer and the knot in her belly less likely to lead to vomiting again. Fallen leaves crackled under her feet and skittered away from her toes where she kicked them.

“We have to make contingency plans,” Isadau said, “in the event I am detained by the new magistrate.”

“Why?” Cithrin asked.

“Because she’s going to be detained by the new magistrate,” Yardem said.

“She doesn’t have to be,” Cithrin said. “She can go to Carse.”

“I won’t abandon my city,” Isadau said. “I know that I can’t help for much longer. But so long as I can, I will. If anything, it’s you who should leave. I’ve written to Komme. He agrees that losing two of his magistras is worse than losing one.”

“I won’t leave you,” Cithrin said. “I won’t go while you’re here.”

“Then I’m afraid Komme is going to have a very unpleasant year,” Isadau said. Jurin stepped into the garden and nodded to Isadau. The magistra rose to her feet. “Please excuse me,” she said, and followed her brother out.

Cithrin kicked a small pile of leaves. Her mind felt like a cat in a cage, pacing, looking for a pathway out because she wanted it to be there more than from the expectation that it would be.

“She’s doing exactly what Marcus said,” Cithrin said. “She’s fighting battles and losing wars.”

“She knows she’s doomed. She’s made that choice. Her informants are already being caught up. I’ll be surprised if they don’t come for her by next Tenthday.”

“God damn that woman,” Cithrin said. “That stubborn, senseless—”

“If she can save one more child before she falls, it will have been worth it to her. And there’s no one else who can do what she’s doing. She knows the city. She knows the people. It’s the only advantage she has, and in most conditions, it would be significant.”

“It’s going to get her killed.”

“It is.”

Cithrin said something obscene, then she stopped. Yardem’s ears went flat.

“Magistra?”

“I know people too,” she said.

Dear Geder—

I’m sorry I haven’t written to you sooner. At first it was that I was so busy with the business of the bank that even though I kept meaning to, I never seemed to find the time. And then, after it had been so long, I started feeling awkward about it having been so long. I know it sounds stupid, and I suppose it is. But there you have it. I didn’t write, and I’m sorry for it, and I’m writing you now.

And, to make matters worse, I’m writing to ask a favor. Since last we saw each other, I’ve been reassigned within the bank. I am now the voice of the Medean bank in Suddapal, which I believe technically makes me one of your subjects. And while I understand the need for security, I’ve found some of your commanders here a bit difficult to work with. They have military minds, which is all well and good for what they’re doing, but difficult for someone trying to run a business. I was wondering if you could put in a good word for me? If you could even just assure them that I’m not involved in any devious conspiracies against you, I think it would make things better all around, and not only for me.

Tell Aster I miss him, and you, and that terrible cat-piss stinking hole we lived in. Who would ever have guessed those would be the good old days?

Your friend, Cithrin bel Sarcour

“You. Are. Mad ,” Isadau said as she sat at her desk, the draft of the letter in her hand. Her face had gone ashen.

“It’s a better plan than yours,” Cithrin said. “I didn’t put together your network. I can say that without lying, and so I can talk around any hard questions better than you. And if Geder does this, his people will think twice before they come too near to the bank. None of those are advantages you have, and they aren’t ones you can get. These are mine. Your advantages are that more people know your role and are in a position to betray you; you’re Timzinae, and Geder’s decided to hate the Timzinae; and … well? What else? That may be all you have to bring to the table.”