Then came the news of war.
“No,” Marcus said. “Not overland. There’ll be refugees on all the roads through Northcoast. Thick in the last parts of Birancour too, for that matter.”
The counting house was empty apart from the three of them—Marcus, Cithrin, and Pyk. The chalked duty roster showed half a dozen names, but most of them were on the road back from Cemmis township under Yardem’s command, and the others Marcus had set to wait in the street. Their voices were audible, but Cithrin couldn’t make out any words. Her map was stretched out on the floor, with all of them looking at it as if there was a secret message hidden in its lines. Birancour in the south, with the smaller kingdoms clustered around it. Northcoast above and to the right, looking down at it like a disapproving older brother. And beyond it, the war.
“Sea’s a problem too,” Pyk said, sucking at her teeth.
“Why?” Cithrin asked.
“We did just burn a pirate’s ship down to the waterline,” Marcus said. “Might want to give a little time before we offer him a chance at bloody vengeance.”
Pyk’s expression darkened, but she didn’t speak. Cithrin hadn’t gone to the woman until Marcus had returned with confirmation that their scheme had worked. She’d left the notary in an uncomfortable place. Cithrin had taken action on the bank’s behalf without Pyk’s knowledge, but there had been no formal negotiation, no papers to sign. Nothing she’d done violated the terms under which Cithrin was bound. Only the spirit and intention of the thing was compromised, and in the process, the losses of the Stormcrow’s insurance contract would be at least partly recovered. Pyk could be unhappy about how it had been done, but the results allowed her as little room for open complaint as for pleasure.
“Overland to Sara-sur-Mar and then by ship,” Pyk said. “Cuts out the waters near Cabral and keeps her far enough west she’ll miss the worst of it.”
“Likely the best route,” Marcus said. “It does pass through some rough territory in the center. The farmlands are taxed hard. There’s places where the locals see travelers as either predators or prey.”
“That’s truth,” Pyk said, though she sounded less worried about it than pleased. “The reports will want guarding.”
“I don’t want a full caravan,” Cithrin said. “Just Marcus and Yardem will be fine, I think.”
“The hell they will,” Pyk said.
“That’s not a choice you get to make,” Marcus said.
The Yemmu woman’s thick lips went slack in surprise.
“You’re serious?” she said. “And here I was starting to think you weren’t an idiot. Or am I the only one who’s thought through the implications? Northcoast was on the edge of a fresh war of succession last year. King Tracian’s ass has barely warmed up his throne. Now Asterilhold—his neighbor with the longest and least defensible border—is marching into the field against Imperial Antea.”
“Your point being?” Cithrin asked archly.
“You want to go there with Marcus Wester in tow? Because the way I remember it, last time he was in Northcoast he killed their king.”
“And gave the throne to Lady Tracian,” Marcus said.
“So now that it’s her nephew wearing the crown, maybe you’ve come to take it back,” Pyk said. “If I were king of Northcoast and you came waltzing back into my kingdom with sword music already singing in my ears, you know what I’d do? Lock your pretty little ass up just to be on the safe side. And I’d start looking pretty damn funny at whoever it was that brought you, and I don’t mean the magistra here.”
“I’ll be fine,” Marcus said.
Pyk hoisted her eyebrows but didn’t say anything more. A shout came from the street, and then laughter. A single sharp rap on the door announced Yardem Hane. The Tralgu’s ears were canted forward, giving him an earnest, attentive look.
“It’s all in the warehouse, sir.”
“You have a full list?” Pyk snapped.
Yardem walked across the room and gave the woman a handful of papers, but Cithrin’s attention was still on the map, her mind turning over the journey still ahead. A tightness she hadn’t expected was knotting her belly. In the corner of her vision, Pyk ran a scarred thumb down the list. The hiss of paper against paper when she moved the second page was like an impatient sigh.
“This isn’t ours,” she said, tapping at the page.
“Is now,” Marcus said. “It’s in our warehouse.”
“Oh, really?” Pyk said. “And when some salt quarter merchant files claim with the governor, is that what you’re telling the magistrate? Well, we took it from a pirate, so it’s ours? If we don’t have papers proving our right to have it, get it out of my warehouse.”