Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Dar,” Kit said.

“And what brings you to the warm hearth and happy home of our northern brothers?”

“We are a theater company,” Kit said. “Seeking new audiences.”

“Well,” Dar Cinlama said, “this is a place to find them. This is likely the most Firstblood any of these orders have seen in years.”

“And perhaps the last,” Kit said. “I can’t say we’ve found quite as many audiences as we’d hoped.”

“Should have come in summer,” Dar Cinlama said. “Bugs the size of your fist trying to drink you dry, but at least the sky isn’t trying to kill you.”

“Been here since then, have you?” Marcus asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Yes, I have,” Dar Cinlama said, “and likely I’ll be coming back next summer. But once the weather clears, we’re going down to Borja. Winter in Tauendak or Lôdi.”

At the far end of the lodge house, the door opened, and the woman who’d saved them from the cold came back in. From a distance, her cloak looked no heavier than something Marcus might have worn on a cool day in spring. She brushed the snow and ice out of her hair and walked over to Kirot. As they bent their heads together in conversation, the draft of cold air finally reached them, and Marcus shuddered.

“I think we may follow your lead,” Kit said. “We were thinking of following the King’s Hunt in Antea, but the company has been there a little too long, and we chose to come here.”

“Bad, bad decision,” Sandr said weakly, so maybe he wasn’t asleep after all.

“Is your work in the north finished as well?” Kit asked, and Marcus could feel the edge in the question. He couldn’t help feeling a small thrill of excitement.

“Work’s never finished,” Dar Cinlama said expansively. “The world’s too big and too old for that. I was following the story that a giant was buried in the north with a sword of flame that could slaughter armies.”

“Really?” Marcus said.

“There’s really a story,” Dar Cinlama said. “And maybe there’s a giant and a sword to go with it, but we haven’t found it yet. I’ve found other hints. Part of it mentions a lake where the stars come to die, and I’ve found an inlet about three days from here where the fish take on a glow. Get a whole school of them, and it could be what the story meant.”

At the far end of the lodge, Kirot nodded his head once sharply, then started coming down toward them. Marcus watched him without seeming to. Better for now if Kit could pull information from the Dartinae without interruption, but that was looking unlikely.

“That’s what you do, then?” Kit asked. “Find old stories and match them to bits of landscape?”

“It’s part,” the Dartinae said. “I’ll chase rumors and old tales, or I’ll just head off to places where no one looks and look there. Can’t know what you’ll find.”

“That’s truth,” Marcus said. Kirot was almost upon them. “No luck this time, though?”

“There were a few times I thought we were close. Old stories that made it seem like we were close to something, but nothing came of it. Next time, I’m going further inland. Takynpal. maybe.”

Kirot loomed up behind.

“We put your cart and your horses in the deep stables,” he said to Marcus. “Tradition is you give the host a gift for our kindness. We were thinking one of the horses would be good.”

“Seems fair,” Marcus said.

“Do you truly think there is something to be found?” Kit said, his attention still on the adventurer.

“There’s not,” Kirot said. “No such thing as giants, much less magical fire swords.”

Kit’s eyebrows rose and his head shifted up to Kirot.

“No?” the old actor said, his voice all innocence.

“Not a goddam thing,” Kirot said. “Only thing that comes of your kind coming up to Hallskar is a fat load of bones when the drifts melt.”

“There are always secrets waiting to be found,” Dar Cinlama said, sounding wounded.

“Not here there aren’t,” Kirot said. “But you go on killing yourself trying to chase whatever it is down. We’ll keep your things safe once you’re dead.”

The old Haaverkin turned and trundled away, puffing at his pipe.

“Kirot’s bad-tempered,” Dar Cinlama said, “but harmless if you don’t cross him. Seems like that’s the way for all the Orders. Sour. Your people should come with me. When the storm breaks we can all go down to Borja together. Lôdi’s a real city. You’ll draw real crowds there.”

“I think we’ll stay a bit,” Kit said. “We’ve only just come here after all. You should go on without us.”

The Dartinae shrugged. “Your choice. If you’re warm enough now, you should ask old Kirot for some soup and beer. You’re paying a horse for it.”

“Cheap at the price,” Marcus said.

The evening was spent talking with the Antean men and bringing the players back to themselves. Once they were recovered, Sandr and Kit put on a mock poetry competition that drew a bit of a crowd. Marcus sat by the fire drinking his beer and watching. The Haaverkin laughed at different times than Marcus expected them to, and watching Sandr and Kit respond to that, shaping their performance as they went, had a kind of beauty to it. Dar Cinlama, apart from being a little more impressed with himself than Marcus was with him, seemed a decent man. Eventually the fire burned low and the Haaverkin started bedding down on the floor of the lodge house. Dar Cinlama and the Anteans did the same, and before long the players were also in a little group, curled up under blankets together for warmth and comfort in strange surroundings. With the voices all gone quiet, Marcus could hear the storm still shrieking and ripping at the walls of the place. The glow of the embers and low flames in the great hearth threw ruddy shadows across the ceiling and along the walls.

He waited until he was almost certain that the others were asleep, then took himself through a short passage to a latrine that had been hacked out of the frozen ground. When he came back, rather than pulling the blankets over himself, he went to find Kit. As he’d expected, Kit’s eyes were open and bright.

“Well,” Marcus said. “Seems our friend may not have found the thing he was looking for.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Kit said. “And more, I think he’s close to giving up the chase. At least so far as this part of the world goes.”

“Think he’s wise in that?”

“No,” Kit said, his voice so low it was hardly audible even inches from his lips. “No, I think he’s being kept from it. Kirot was lying when he said there was nothing to be found here.”

“Seems we’ve sung that song before,” Marcus said. “Are you up for another verse?”

“Give us a week in Kirot’s company, and I think I can manage something.”

“Good that we have the powers of chaos and madness on our side sometimes. Still, I don’t know what we’re going to do with another damned magic sword.”

Cary muttered something, turned and stretched out one leg toward the dying fire.

“It isn’t a sword,” Kit said. “And it isn’t a giant.”

“What, then?”

“I don’t know,” Kit said, his eyes bright and merry. “But I believe I can find out.”

Cithrin

Cithrin lay in bed, her eyes focused on the ceiling. Focused on nothing. The pale ceiling looked blankly back down. The cracks in its plaster made shapes and faces. The pillow was too warm or else too cold. Another night without sleep. What did she need it for, anyway?

At last she pulled herself up and went through a rough parody of her morning ablutions. When she came out into the corridor, she was as nearly herself as she was likely to become. And in truth, very few people if anyone would notice how poorly she felt. It was the advantage of living a life of professional deceit that she could choose how much to show and how much to keep to herself. It was one of her primary skills. No one would see how she felt. Or that, at least, was the thought.