The Tyrant's Law tdatc-3

by Daniel Abraham

  Tell Aster I miss him, and you, and that terrible cat-piss stinking hole we lived in. Who would ever have guessed those would be the good old days?

  Your friend, Cithrin bel Sarcour

  “You. Are. Mad,” Isadau said as she sat at her desk, the draft of the letter in her hand. Her face had gone ashen.

  “It’s a better plan than yours,” Cithrin said. “I didn’t put together your network. I can say that without lying, and so I can talk around any hard questions better than you. And if Geder does this, his people will think twice before they come too near to the bank. None of those are advantages you have, and they aren’t ones you can get. These are mine. Your advantages are that more people know your role and are in a position to betray you; you’re Timzinae, and Geder’s decided to hate the Timzinae; and … well? What else? That may be all you have to bring to the table.”

  “Cithrin, you must not do this.”

  “How long is it going to be before your network collapses? Weeks? Days? I can keep some version of it running for months at least. Maybe more. I can do it better than you can. Forget about me. Forget about the bank. If your work falls in a week, who will help the people a month from now? If you leave and leave now, there will still be help for them. If you stay, you’re condemning them. You’re condemning every person that I could have helped if you had let me.”

  Isadau folded the page and put it on her desk as gently as if it might shatter. Or she might. Cithrin waited.

  “Reckless without being stupid,” Isadau said.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It would work better with both of us present,” Isadau said. “Send your letter. Give me the cover to work. I will stay here with you.”

  “No,” Cithrin said. “On one hand, you’re genuinely guilty and I’m not. And on the other, this is my price. You give me the bank. You leave. I help as many people get out from under the occupation as I can, and if the chance comes to do the empire some damage, all the better. But in return, you’re my first client. You and whoever else you pick will leave the city now for Birancour or Herez or Northcoast. I don’t want to know where you’re going. Only that you’re gone, and that I can’t call you back. It’s important that I be able to not lie about that.”

  Isadau bent forward slowly, her hands at her belly. She looked as if she were laughing or in pain, but she only rested there a moment, bent half over, her eyes closed and her lips in a smile that looked like pain. When she opened her eyes again, she was herself.

  “I had resigned myself to dying, you know,” she said.

  “I did,” Cithrin said, and the tears threatened to come back. “It was fucking annoying.”

  “I accept your proposal,” Isadau said. “But not for me. You took the negotiation when you held the lives of the children you could save that I couldn’t.”

  “Attacking at the base. You were justifying your plan to yourself because it was selfless,” Cithrin said. “I undermined that by pointing out that it left innocent lives on the table when my plan recovered them. And since you only had one overwhelming argument, it all came down. If you’d wanted to win, you’d have needed to show that the bank would lose less capital if you stayed or that the cost of your leaving was significantly greater than staying here and being caught.”

  “Only you’d have had arguments prepared against them.”

  “Still do, if you’re tempted,” Cithrin said.

  “Imaniel taught you well,” Isadau said.

  “So did you.”

  Magistra Isadau left the next day, going overland with Jurin, Kani, and almost half the household. They left a few minutes apart so that they might be mistaken for several unrelated groups and to keep within the dictates of the laws against assembly. Isadau was in the last group to go. She wore a simple traveling gown with a split skirt for riding and a hood she had plucked up to hide her face. Astride her little mule, she looked more like a hardland farmer than the voice of the most powerful bank in the world. Cithrin walked beside her to the gate. In the street, four Antean soldiers were laughing and kicking stones down the road like boys. One looked over when the gate opened, but his expression was bored.

  “Thank you, Cithrin,” Isadau said. “Please save what you can, but don’t die here. Not for me.”

  “I’m in this war to win,” Cithrin said. “If you see Pyk or Komme, tell them what we discussed about putting up a bounty system. I’ll see you again when I see you.”

  Isadau urged the little mule on, and Enen closed the gate behind her. Cithrin turned to look at the compound. When she’d come here, it had been a strange, threatening place. Now it was in fact a thousand greater threat to her life, and she didn’t fear it at all. This was her place now. Her word was the word of the bank, and it had the force of gold and Komme Medean behind it.

  “Nicely done, ma’am,” Yardem said.

  “Thank you. Now let’s go about not regretting it, shall we?”

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s the matter of the letter to the Lord Regent.”

  “I know. Call for a courier and we’ll send it. But I need to write one other first.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In Magistra Isadau’s office—Cithrin’s office now—she sat at the desk and gathered her thoughts. The breeze through the windows was chilly, and she kept her cloak on. The flames from the lamp only warmed the air a little. The refugees Isadau had taken in still made music that carried through the afternoon air. The kitchens still filled the world with the scents of baking bread and roasting meat. One might almost imagine it had always been like this, and that it would always be.

  She took a clean sheet of paper, a brass-nibbed pen, and a jar of ink. When she wrote, it was directly into the bank’s cipher, as if it were her natural language.

  Komme—

  I regret to find myself with somewhat awkward news to report. It seems I’ve taken over another of your banks.

  Marcus

  The fastest route to Camnipol was west to Orsen in the Free Cities, and then following the dragon’s road north through the eastern reaches of the Dry Wastes. The first danger was the Antean army camped before the massive gates of Kiaria. Holding to the south would avoid the soldiery, but the siege was going on too long. The Anteans would be pulling food out of the countryside as quickly as they could, and that meant Kit and Marcus were going to be two travelers in a countryside filled with desperate people. While they had the poisoned sword and Kit’s spiders, neither one would be much good against an unexpected arrow. Then there were the mountains that divided Elassae from the Free Cities. They’d spent more than their fair share of time among mountains in the Keshet, but winter was coming on, and an early snowstorm would also negate all their advantages, though Marcus would sometimes imagine Kit shouting, You shall not snow at the low grey clouds. Those, at least, were the extraordinary dangers. Bandits, hunting cats, snakes, and fevers barely warranted mention.

  “It seems to me you’ve been quite cheerful,” Kit said.

  “I suppose I am,” Marcus said.

  “Not having as many nightmares either.”

  “They’ll be back. They always are. But it was good seeing Cithrin and Yardem again.”

  “Mmm,” Kit said with an amused smile.

  Orsen was the easternmost of the Free Cities, and the best defended. It was built on a high, flat-topped mountain that stood in the center of a plain. Marcus had traveled a fair part of the world and never seen another detail of geography to match the flatness of the landscape interrupted by the massive stone. The mountain was also odd in that its stone was ruddy granite that seemed more in place in Borja or Hallskar. Coming into the valley, the thread of red soil radiating from it showed where centuries of rain and wind had begun to erode the mountain down into the more familiar soil. It seemed to Marcus that something immense and strange had happened here, long ago, and no one knew what it might have been. But there was a dragon’s road and a defensible patch of land, and that was all humanity needed to make itself at home.

/>   Rather than take the time to follow the narrow, switch-backed roads up to the city itself, Marcus and Kit stopped at an inn at the mountain’s foot. The groom, a young and painfully thin man, took their horses. A woman perhaps a decade older than Marcus and still young enough to be vital welcomed them as they entered the dim warmth of the common room. The knot of Antean soldiers at the table nearest the fire looked up at them with flat and empty expressions. Marcus nodded and took a seat not far enough to seem like he was avoiding them, and not so near that his murmurs to Kit could be easily heard.

  The lady of the house brought them mugs of good cider and plates of gristly pork with a pepper sauce that kept Marcus from knowing whether the meat had started to turn. He watched the soldiers out of the corner of his eye. The five of them hunched close to each other, talking low. Every few seconds, one or another of them would glance over at Marcus.

  No, not at him. At Kit.

  “Interesting,” Marcus said.

  “What?” Kit asked, drinking his cider and ignoring his meat.

  “Our friends at the next table there. I do believe they’re deserters.”

  “Really?” Kit said, and began shifting on his bench to glance at them. Marcus put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  “Think so,” Marcus said. “And I think they recognize you as looking as if you might be one of the priests. Because ever since we stepped in, they’ve been jumpy as mice that smell a cat. And seeing how they outnumber us more than double, I’m thinking we’re in a position that—”

  The Anteans rose in a group, drawing their blades. The benches they’d sat on clattered to the ground as Marcus drew his own blade and put himself between the attackers and Kit. The lady of the house screamed and ran out the door. The chances she’d be back with timely help seemed thin.

  “There’s no need for violence,” Kit said, and his voice filled the space. “You can put down your—”

  “Shut up, you bastard!” the nearest of the Anteans shouted. “One more word out of you, and I swear we’ll cut you down and burn whatever comes out.”

  Five men, Marcus thought, was a damned lot of people. But they hadn’t attacked yet. If anything, they seemed more frightened. He backed up slowly, pushing his table with the backs of his legs as he went, trying to clear a path for the men to leave if they wanted to.

  “They followed us,” a dark-skinned one at the back said. “Lani, they followed us.”

  “Well, and if they didn’t you just told them my name,” the man at the front said. “And thanks for that.”

  “Lani?” Marcus said. “My name’s Wester. We don’t need to—”

  The attack was fast and disorganized. Lani jumped forward, his blade swinging high. Marcus blocked and made a low counterstrike by long habit. Lani grunted with pain, falling half a step back and preparing for Marcus to press the advantage, but by then two of the others had stepped to their leader’s side. Marcus could see them preparing to attack in unison. He couldn’t block them both.

  Kit’s cider mug came from behind him in a low, fast arc and shattered against the nose of the man on Lani’s right. Marcus thrust at the one on the left, who fell back, cursing.

  “I don’t want this,” Marcus said. “We’re not hunting you.”

  “We’re not going back!” Lani shouted, and then as if on a signal, all five men turned and bolted for the yard, leaving Marcus and Kit alone in the common room. Marcus moved forward carefully. Retreating to the next room to set up an ambush was an idiot’s plan when you already had five blades to the opponent’s one, but working with the assumption that his enemies weren’t idiots would have had its drawbacks as well. Keeping the blade at the ready, he moved forward step by careful step. The sound of hooves pelting away down the road left him feeling a little more certain, and when he reached the yard, the thin groom’s confused expression and the cloud of dust in the west were enough that Marcus sheathed his blade. Kit’s familiar footsteps came up behind him.

  “Well,” Marcus said. “That’s not good.”

  “Don’t you think so?” Kit asked. “It seems to me it might be quite a hopeful sign. Men are beginning to abandon the Antean army. And did you hear what they said to me? Cut me and burn whatever comes out? That sounds to me as if some other people within the enemy forces have begun to see that something odd is going on, and they aren’t celebrating it.”

  “That’s true,” Marcus said. “It’s not what I meant, though.”

  “No?”

  “I’m fairly sure they stole our horses.”

  “Ah,” Kit said. “That’s not good.”

  “Isn’t. You think you might be able to use those uncanny powers of yours to find us some replacements?”

  “I assume we can walk up to the city. It might take some time to earn enough to buy horses, but we can try.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of walking up to someone on a nice horse and asking them to let us use it.”

  Kit made an uncomfortable kind of grunt and Marcus looked over at him.

  “I believe the power—her power—can become a path of corruption. An opportunity, as it were, to lose what is most valuable about ourselves.”

  “Yeah. Saving the world here, Kit,” Marcus said. “Let’s keep focus on that.”

  The old actor sighed.

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  Once they’d reached the dragon’s road, they moved as fast as a courier, changing for fresh horses twice a day. The fields, farms, and wild places of Antea spread around them like a vast grey-brown cloak. The trees were shedding their summer green. In the fields they passed, Firstblood farmers rode on mules with whips at their sides while Timzinae men and women harvested the last of the autumn crops—pumpkins and gourds and winter wheat. Whenever they passed a low temple, the banner of the spider goddess flew from its roof. And even with all this for warning, Marcus was surprised when at last they reached Camnipol.

  Coming from the south meant that the great city stood on an escarpment above them. They went up the trails to the southern gate with only the massive walls to see. Within them, Camnipol might have been empty for all Marcus could tell. It was only when they passed through the tunnel in the wall and emerged into the wider city that the full extent of the place became clear. All around him, buildings rose two and three and four stories high. The streets were thick with people, Firstblood mostly, but Tralgu and Jasuru and Dartinae faces as well. None of those were what stopped him. There was something he couldn’t quite explain—a grandeur and a weariness and sense of terrible age—that seeped through the city itself. He’d known many cities in his life, and until he walked into Camnipol for the first time, he would have said that he understood what it meant for a city to have a personality; that every gathering place of humanity had its own customs and idiosyncrasies, that the coffee in Northcoast came with honey and in Maccia with cardamom. Camnipol was something else again. Here the personality of the city wasn’t just the contingencies and customs of the people in it. It was something that grew out of the stone, that scented the air. Camnipol was a living thing, and the people in its streets were parts of it the way that skin and ligaments and muscles made up a body.

  And what was strangest of all, it wasn’t a secret. It was as obvious as the sun the moment he stepped inside the walls. Kit reined in beside him.

  “Your first time in Camnipol, then?”

  “They didn’t hire many mercenary companies when I was in the trade,” Marcus said. “I spent more time at little garrisons. God. I’m gawking at the place like a child.”

  “Wait until you see the Division,” Kit said. But it wasn’t the great chasm of the Division that caught them up next. When they turned a corner into a wider square, the Kingspire came into view, rising into the sky higher than any human structure should. In the midday sun, it seemed almost to glow. And high up, almost at its top, a vast banner flew.

  When he’d been a boy, Marcus had seen a spider’s egg crack open and thousands of tiny animals with de
licate pale bodies no larger than a grain of millet spin out thread into the breeze. He’d watched them rise up in the sun, thick as smoke and tiny. And later in the summer, his father had showed him a vast web at the edge of the garden where a massive yellow-and-black beast of a spider had made its home. The thing had been big as a fist, and its web strong enough to catch sparrows. Marcus still remembered the chill of understanding that had come to him. Each one of those tiny grains floating on the wind had gone out into the world and grown into a monstrosity like this one. And like that, each little banner they had seen, dyed whatever red the locals could manage, painted with the eightfold sigil, and hung from the temple’s eave, had been a grain. And the massive cloth that floated in the air over Camnipol was the beast they would grow into.

  The grimness in Kit’s expression told Marcus that the old actor understood and was thinking along the same track.

  “All right,” Marcus said as they rode across the square to a public stable with the inexplicable sign of an ice-blue mallet over the gate. “What’s the plan, then? Start asking people if they know who’s been sending letters to Carse and wait for someone who tells us no to be lying about it?”

  “It sounds inelegant when you put it that way,” Master Kit said, chuckling. “I have spent some time in Camnipol, and I have some ideas where we might begin.”

  “Well, you can be the one who’s wise in the ways of the city,” Marcus said. “I’ll be the one that hits whoever needs hitting.”

  “That seems a fair division of labor.”

  Rather than pay for stabling, Kit sold the horses at a decent profit, though Marcus suspected it was nowhere near what he could have gotten, and they began their walk through the city. A nail maker greeted Kit by name, and they stopped to talk for the better part of an hour. Then a butcher’s stall run by a Jasuru woman with scales more green than bronze and three missing fingers. Then an old man at a tavern who called Kit Looloo for reasons that Marcus never entirely understood. Everyone they met was happy to see Kit, but the stories they told of life in the city were eerie. The Lord Regent, they said, was a brilliant man with powers more subtle than a cunning man’s. Food was growing short, in part because the farms hadn’t worked at capacity since the war with Asterilhold and in part because so much was still being sent to feed the army in Elassae. The cult of the spider goddess was a blessing for the city, and since it had come, everything was going well. The streets weren’t safe after dark. Too many people were hungry. Camnipol had become more violent and dangerous because of the Timzinae and their agents. Twice, Kit’s friends told of a secret ring of Timzinae who’d been stalking the streets at night and stealing away Firstblood women. In one version, they’d been taken to a secret temple under the city and slaughtered as offerings to the dragons. In another, they’d been found in a secret room in the manor house of the traitor Alan Klin, which only served to show that Klin had been as much a tool of the Timzinae as Dawson Kalliam.