The King's Blood(159)

But it was nothing like home.

Lauro and Komme came to greet the cart. The older man’s gout was between flares, and he looked ten years younger without the lines of pain in his face. Chana was at the market, and Paerin left the cart to a servant so that he could go out to find her there. Magister Nison also appeared, friendly and laughing, and digging for every scrap of information and gossip he could.

A room had been set aside for Cithrin, and she walked up the stairs to it gratefully. It wasn’t large, but it was comfortable: a small bed, a writing desk, a lantern of glass and silver that managed to be both elegant and ornate. The rug was woven from reeds and felt surprisingly soft beneath her feet.

And beside the bed, a satchel made of red leather that she didn’t recognize. When she opened it, a double handful of papers came out, along with a small lacquer box with the image of a stork taking flight inlaid on the lid. Most of the papers were letters from Porte Oliva and Pyk. Cithrin read through them. The loan to a new brewer had gone south, and the stock and equipment sold at cost to the other brewer with whom they had partnered. The ultimate loss was minimal. Dar Cinlama, the explorer who had given Cithrin the dragon’s tooth that was still in her bags, had gone off into the Dry Wastes with a party of a hundred, and hadn’t come back. Either he’d found something of interest or something had found him of interest. The way it was written, she could hear the contempt in the Yemmu woman’s voice.

Certain belongings of Marcus Wester’s had been taken from the warehouse and sold. The proceeds were being held by Yardem Hane. Nothing else was on that letter. No explanation of why Marcus had left or where he’d gone that he couldn’t take his money with him. That was the first order of business when she got home, and no doubts.

The last report wasn’t from Porte Oliva at all, but from the holding company itself. It included records copied from Porte Oliva, and before that from Vanai. It was the complete accounting of the deposits her parents had put in the bank before they died, and how the money had been spent in the meantime. A depositor’s report in the name of Cithrin bel Sarcour.

The lacquer box was listed among the assets.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Komme Medean said from the doorway. “Chana didn’t think you would, but I knew. I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“You’ve come of age. While you were in Camnipol hiding from God knows what with I frankly can’t believe who, you became a woman. Chana thought that something that important wouldn’t go unnoticed. I thought you’d already crossed that line in your own mind so long ago, it would matter very little to you.”

Cithrin opened the lacquer box. Inside was a necklace of white gold with pale emeralds just the color of her eyes. Cithrin found herself moved.

“I think your mother must have had coloring very much like your own,” Komme Medean said. “Would you like some help fastening it?”

“Please,” she said.

The old fingers were steady and sure. The necklace lay against her collarbone. It wasn’t the right length for the clothes she was wearing now, but the paler dress would leave it looking brilliant. She smiled and bowed her head.

“Thank you,” she said. “I couldn’t have asked for better parents than the bank has been.”

Komme Medean smiled.

“You’re a forger and an extortionist. From what I hear, you like wine entirely too much for your own good. And Pyk Usterhall thinks the part of your brain that measures risk was underfed when you were a babe. None of this has changed. Only one thing is different now than it was when you left.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Komme Medean said. “Now I can hold you to your contracts.”

“Does that mean I can stop being the playtoy magistra with Pyk pulling my strings?”

“You hate that, don’t you?” he said.

“I do.”

“No. You’re still too young. Too inexperienced. Four years, two of them in other branches where you can see an established magister. Then we can decide whether Porte Oliva is yours.”

“Two years, six months with a different branch,” she said. “I grew up in Vanai with Magister Imaniel. I’ve already seen a branch function from the inside.”

“Two years, one of them with a different branch. You can’t understand the whole cycle of a year until you’ve seen it start to finish.”

“Done.”

Komme Medean smiled.

“Well,” he said. “I think I’ve just bought myself two years, don’t you?”


D

espite Paerin’s comments about her being the new expert on Geder Palliako, Cithrin had been surprised to be included in the formal meeting. She’d assumed that she’d talk with Komme, Paerin, and Chana—possibly Magister Nison or Lauro—and then the information would be distilled and interpreted before it was presented to the king.