“I can’t say for certain,” she said, “but I would guess that he was hoping I might be set to watch over it.”
“Really now,” Paerin Clark said. “And you wouldn’t have put that thought in his mind, would you? I only ask because your interest in running a branch is fairly well known.”
“I don’t want just any branch,” Cithrin said. “I want mine. If you offered me Camnipol… well, I might accept, but you’d have to pay me a great deal more.”
“His idea, then.”
“His.”
“That’s quite interesting too. Is there anything you’d like to add to your official report?”
“No,” Cithrin said. “There isn’t.”
“Where are your loyalties?” he asked. His tone of voice was precisely the same, but she could sense that the question was deeper, and she thought for a long moment before she answered.
“I don’t know. I think we’re in the process of finding that out, you and I. Don’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “Oh. And there’s a letter come from dare I call it your branch. From a Yardem Hane? Nothing critical I don’t think. Only that Captain Wester resigned. This Hane person was his second, and he’s stepped in the role.”
“What?”
He looked up at her, concern in his eyes.
“Is that a problem?”
Cithrin felt shocked and hollowed. He wouldn’t be there when she went back. She tested the thought and found it
implausible. Of course Marcus would be there. He was always there. Something must have happened, but she couldn’t think what it would be, of what could make it all right.
“Not a problem,” she said. “Only a surprise.”
I
might be able to get you some interest from Geder,” Cithrin said. “Having the patronage of the Lord Regent could make you all quite fashionable.”
“You’re moving,” Hornet said around a mouthful of pins. “Stop moving.”
“I’d be quite happy for whatever patronage we could find,” Cary said, lifting one of the mock swords and considering it. “But I’m not sure how much the Lord Regent is going to want to remember his time with the company.”
“Don’t know about that,” Sandr said. “It was an adventure, wasn’t it? It isn’t like it’s a thing everyone in court will have done.”
“I don’t think court grandees score points off each other by bragging on who’s lived in the most squalid filth,” Cary said. “Really, that hole reeked.”
“I suppose it did,” Cithrin said. “Well, if you don’t make yourselves the favorite company of the noble classes of Camnipol, then what? Come back south?”
“Anyplace that’s not so hot the stones sweat would be fine with me,” Sandr said.
“Oh, don’t bother leaving for that,” Smit said. “This heat’s about to break. You can smell it, if you know how.”
Sandr snorted and rolled his eyes.
“You can’t call the weather,” he said.
“Sure I can,” Smit said.
“No you can’t. You always say the same thing. It’s always that there’s a storm coming. You’ll go on for weeks that way.” Sandr shifted his face, lengthening his jaw and pulling down in the eyes somehow that Cithrin didn’t entirely understand. The imitation was so good, he seemed like Smit’s brother. When he spoke, the voice was Smit’s. “Storm’s coming. Mark me, storm’s coming.”
“And I’m always right,” Smit said. “Sometimes it just takes a little longer for it to get here.”
“But you could just as well say snow’s coming and claim every winter proved you right.”
“I would be,” Smit said. “And besides that, storm’s coming.” Cary turned, catching Cithrin’s eye. They smiled at each other. This was Cary’s family, and she loved it. Cithrin loved it too, though it wasn’t hers. They were friends, some of them dear, but her home wasn’t in the cart or on the stage or sleeping in the hayloft above some new stable. Hers was in
the counting house and the café.
“All right,” Hornet said. “Let me throw some stitches on that, and you’ll have a nice simple traveler’s dress, perfect for any occasion involving mud, mules, and mischief. And I’ve put in a little pocket here you can hide a knife in case the caravan master sets his aim for your virtue.”
“I will fear no caravan master,” Cithrin said in an artificial voice, the parody of stagecraft. Her bow was florid and unlikely to match. “My eternal thanks.”