“Camnipol’s still burning, is it?” he said, forcing his tone to be casual. From Koke’s reaction, he saw he’d failed.
“God damn, man. Where have you been? I’d thought this spending coin to track down Marcus Wester was a joke, but you’ve been outside the whole damned world, haven’t you? Camnipol’s fine. Palliako’s invaded Sarakal.”
Most men wouldn’t have noticed the change in Kit’s expression, but it was plain as daylight to Marcus. Not surprise. Maybe despair.
“How’s that going for him?”
“Better than it has a right to,” Koke said. “And you’re looking to change the subject.”
“Am I?”
The old Jasuru sighed and leaned forward. The first time Marcus had met him, his scales had been bright and burnished, his hair dark and pulled back in an oiled braid. Now he looked spent. Still the same man, but worn down by the years and the battles and unable to break free of the patterns and demands of a life spent fighting for pay.
“I can clear three hundred in Birancour silver for writing a letter about you, old friend,” Koke said. “And the truth is my company can use whatever falls off the trees. But I don’t have to if I don’t have to.”
The other fighters looked down, pretending not to be there. Kit turned toward the door as he he were expecting someone to barge through it at any moment. No one did.
“You’re asking if I want to better the price to keep you silent?” Marcus said.
“If it’s worth that to you,” Koke said. “Seeing how we’ve worked together, I wouldn’t ask more than matching. I’m not greedy.”
Marcus pretended a yawn and stretched his arms. His body felt as tight as a bowstring and his mind was cold and sharp.
“I appreciate the thought, but if I were you, I’d take all the coin Yardem’s got to hand out. In fact, if you’re sending to him, give him a message from me. Let him know as soon as I’m free, I’ll come see him.”
Koke chuckled, low and mirthless.
“More than one way to hear those words,” he said.
“Don’t jump at shadows,” Marcus said. “I’m guessing our mutual friend has a contract he’d throw my way or something of the sort. Nothing sinister in that.”
“For three hundred silver?”
“Maybe he needs my help badly,” Marcus said. “I am awfully damned good at what I do.”
“Which is what, in this instance?”
“Same as always. Whatever needs doing,” Marcus said, and rose to his feet. “Good seeing you again, Koke.”
“You’re going to bed already?” Koke said. “Night’s only just starting.”
“Not for me, it’s not. Kit, you’re on your own. But this bastard’s clever, and if he tries to get you drunk, he wants something.”
“My boyish affections, perhaps,” Kit said with a perfect timing that set Koke and his men laughing.
Koke stood and embraced Marcus again. “Take care of yourself, old friend. We’re in odd times.”
“Always have been,” Marcus said, then retreated to his room.
The bed that had been so comfortable not hours before seemed lumpy and awkward now. The rest his body had ached for couldn’t be coaxed back. Marcus lay in the darkness, hands behind his head, and listened to the murmur of distant voices like the rushing of a river. Yardem’s name had ripped off a scab he’d forgotten was there, and now he felt exposed and stung and less than halfway healed. He wanted to know why Yardem was in Suddapal, and what he meant by paying for information about Marcus. And he needed to know whether Cithrin was all right and what had happened to her in Camnipol, whether she’d lived, and if she had, at what price. The dread was like a weight on his breastbone. His mind flitted to all the sacked cities he’d been through, all the innocent victims of war he’d seen, and his imagination put Cithrin in their places.
The nightmares would come back tonight. The old ones of Alys and Merian. Women he’d failed to protect. If Cithrin was dead or hurt, someone would die for it. Yardem first, and then whoever had done it. Marcus knew from experience that the effort wouldn’t redeem anything, and that he would do it anyway.
He hadn’t fallen asleep when the door opened and Kit stepped in. At some point in the evening, something had spilled on him, and he smelled beery. The actor sat on the end of the bed and began unstrapping his boots.
“Asterilhold and Antea last year,” Marcus said. “Now Sarakal.”
“Apparently so,” Kit said. The first boot thumped against the floorboards.
“Your spider goddess eating the world. This is the beginning of that, isn’t it?”