The King's Blood(149)

“What do you think it is?”

“It could be a prison. Someplace that the dragons dropped their bad slaves. Or the last retreat of Drakkis Stormcrow. I really couldn’t say for certain. What about you? What’s the strangest thing you’ve seen in your travels?”

“Probably you.”

“Well. Fair enough.”

The harp tune changed, shifting to a soft melody that the night seemed to carry on its own.

“I think the third string’s out of tune,” Kit said.

“Only a bit,” Marcus said. “And you aren’t paying for it.”

Sleep hovered at the edge of Marcus’s mind, but never quite descended. Kit shifted in his bedroll, and a falling star flashed overhead, there and gone before Marcus could say anything.

“You know,” Kit said, very softly. “I think I could make the nightmares go away. If you wanted me, I could try.”

“And how would you do that?”

“I would tell you that it wasn’t your fault, what happened to them. I could tell you that they forgave you. Given time, you would believe me. It might afford you more peace. Some sleep.”

“If you tried, I’d have to kill you.”

“That bad?”

“That bad,” he said.

“It wouldn’t take your memory of them.”

“It would take what the memories meant,” Marcus said. “That’s worse. Besides, they’re not bothering me right now.”

“I’d noticed that,” Kit said. “I thought it was a bit odd. You’ve seemed almost content. It’s unnerving.”

“I had everything in Porte Oliva,” Marcus said. “Steady work. A company that respected and followed me. I didn’t work for a king. I had Cithrin and I had Yardem. I am, by the way, going to kill him when we’re done with this. He betrayed me, and he’ll answer for it. You can try your little magic on that if you want.”

“I believe you,” Kit said. “But you’ve lost all of that now, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Marcus said. “I’m finishing up my fourth decade in the world sleeping on dirt and grass beside a man with spiders crawling though his veins. I have to get across the Inner Sea, and I don’t know how I’m going to manage it. If I do get there, I’m not certain yet how I’ll get back. And when I do, I’ll most likely be killed trying to slaughter a goddess. And I feel better than I have since Cithrin beat her audit. When I have something, I worry about all the things I’d have to do to keep it. Out here, I’ve got nothing. Or at least nothing good. And so I’m free.”

“That sounds like a complex way of saying that your soul is in the shape of a circle, turned on its edge,” Kit said.

Marcus nodded.

“You know I respect your wisdom and enjoy your company, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody likes you when you’re being clever.”

Marcus drifted to sleep even before the harpist quit for the night. He woke in the morning with dew in his hair and the blue-yellow light of dawn reaching across a perfect blue sky.


T

wo days later, they were walking past a small streetside café when Master Kit suddenly paused, his eyes narrowing at the worked iron sign of a dolphin above the door.

“Something?” Marcus said.

“Perhaps,” Kit said. “It’s been … Just a moment, would you?”

Inside, the café was dirty and close, the walls stained by years of smoke that came even now from the kitchen, leaving the place in a haze of charcoal smoke, seared fat, and spices that made Marcus’s mouth water just smelling them.

A young and angry-looking Timzinae man barreled out toward them, waving black hands.

“Not open yet,” he said. “Come back in an hour.” “Forgive me,” Master Kit said. “Your name wouldn’t be Epetchi, would it?”

The Timzinae’s eyes went wide, and then disconcertingly did it again as his nictitating membrane slid open with an audible click.

“Kitap!” he shouted, leaping to put his arms around Master Kit. “Kitap, you old bastard! We all thought you were dead by now. You and your friend come back to the kitchen. Ela! Kitap’s here, and you won’t believe it. He’s old and fat.”

Marcus found himself carried along on a wave of other people’s enthusiasm, seated at a cutting table, and eating from a bowl of something that looked like the waste scraped off a cooking grill and tasted better than anything he’d had in years.

All around him, Timzinae men and women were smiling, and little boys and girls so young that their scales were still light brown were trotted out bored but patient to Master Kit, who delighted over each one. When he introduced Marcus by his full name, he could tell that the first man—Epetchi, his name was—was skeptical. But if old Kitap wanted to travel with a man who pretended to be the murderer of kings from Northcoast, it was apparently fine by him.