A beggar came up to him with her hand out, then met his eyes, started, and backed away. He was almost back at the taproom before he knew he was going there. The sound of the voices in the courtyard was just as loud. Maybe louder. He made his way in. He saw Yardem see him. The Tralgu’s ears went up and forward, straining at him, but Marcus only lifted a hand, more acknowledgment than greeting.
Qahuar Em and his client were sitting at a small table in the shade of a wide white wall. Seagulls were screeching and wheeling out beyond them, grey against the white sky. Marcus hesitated. He’d taken enough lovers in the years after Ellis that he knew what sex would ease and what it wouldn’t. Right now, his body wasn’t hungry. He didn’t need release for its own sake. The thing that would soothe him now, he wasn’t going to find in a woman’s bed.
Or anywhere else.
We have steady work for fair pay. We have shelter and we have food. Interesting if that’s not what we were looking for.
And more than that? What did he want that was more than that? What had Cithrin taken with her that left him angry with no one to be angry at?
The woman with Qahuar Em looked over, saw him, smiled. Marcus smiled back. This was a mistake, but it was his to make. He found the serving boy, made his order, and gave him a silver coin that would have paid twice over. When he approached the table, Qahuar Em smiled and lifted his eyebrows.
“Evening,” Marcus said. “I hoped I could return your kindness. Stand you to a round?”
“Of course,” Qahuar Em said. “This is Arinn Costallin, a dear friend of mine from Herez.”
“Marcus Wester,” he said, taking her hand. “So I’ve heard,” she said.
Y
ardem found him by the seawall just before dawn. Marcus wasn’t drunk anymore. The rain had stopped sometime after midnight, and the clouds had scattered. Yardem had a sack of roasted nuts in his hand. When he squatted down next to Marcus, he held its open mouth toward him. Marcus took a handful. They tasted sweet and meaty.
“Didn’t see you at the barracks,” Yardem said.
“I am an ass.”
Yardem nodded and bit down on a nut. They chewed together quietly for a time. A seagull called, lofting up into the darkness, then, as if confused, swung back and landed on the cliff face below them.
“Moved too fast with her, sir?”
“Did.”
“Should we be expecting children?”
“No. I was careful about that, at least. But then after, I started talking about…”
Marcus leaned forward, his head in his hands.
“Might have been a little early to talk about them, sir.”
“Might have.”
“Scared her off of you.”
“Did,” Marcus said. Below them, fishing boats had put out to sea for the day. Tiny black dots on a nearly black sea.
“Was this about Alys and Merian?” Yardem asked. “Or was it about the magistra?”
“Cithrin.”
“You think she isn’t coming back, then.”
“I think she may not. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. And someday I’ll need to find what it’s going to take to get a family I can keep.”
Yardem nodded and flicked one jingling ear. They were silent for a moment.
“I have an answer for that,” Yardem said.
“Is it theological?”
“Is.”
“Best we save it, then,” Marcus said, clapping his hands on his thighs and standing up. His back was a single long ache, and his mouth felt as dry as cotton. When he stretched his arms, something between his shoulders cracked like a dry stick. “I take it Pyk has a list of work for us?”
“Does, sir. But if you’d like to sleep, I can take a group through it all. It’s not so much we can’t manage without.”
“No. There’s a job needs doing,” Marcus said. “Show me what we’ve got.”
Dawson
C
amnipol opened its gates to Dawson and his men as if to a hero from legends. The sober black and gold of the city was covered over in bright, celebratory array. Pennants as long as five men standing fluttered from the windows of the Kingspire, and the great bridges were hung with flowers produced by both nature and artifice. As he marched through the great streets, honor guard surrounding him, choirs of children sang the ancient songs of heroes and wars with Dawson’s name included among the great generals of the past. He was hailed as a great man and a patriot. The irony was rich. All of it was true, and not a word of it had been earned.
Not yet.
His army, of course, waited in camp outside the walls. No armed force was allowed within Camnipol. That had always been true, and after the showfighters’ riot, the old tradition had been reinforced. And even if Dawson had ordered the attack, it would have done no good. He was praised and honored today only as far as he was the tool of Geder Palliako and his cult. To turn against the man too soon was to invite failure. Dawson raised his chin, smiled, waved, accepted the garlands of white and red flowers offered to him, and reminded himself that all of it was not earned by what he had done, but borrowed against what he was about to achieve.