The celebrations and revels that had greeted him in Camnipol should have washed that away, and for a time they had. But not forever. It had been sweet—he’d thought at the time that it was—but maybe it hadn’t been. Certainly it had felt glorious when it was going on. He’d risen in the court. He’d saved the city from the mercenary insurrection. And yet here he was, in exile again, fleeing from political games he didn’t understand. And as unpleasant as the unease in his belly might be, it was still better than the nightmares of fire.
In truth, what had happened in Vanai wasn’t his fault. He had been used. The lost sleep, the constant dread, even the suspicion that during all his revels and celebrations Alan Klin and his friends had been laughing down their sleeves at him. They were the scars he bore.
He turned the thought over in his mind. The court games that soaked the Kingspire and Camnipol weren’t anything he’d ever chosen to put himself into. The relief he’d felt coming back from Vanai to adulation and approval were hollow to him now, and at the same time, he wanted it back. It had let him forget the voice of the flames for a little while. But like the Haavirkin seer’s dreamed water, the sweetness hadn’t been sweet, just relief from the bitterness. And it hadn’t cured anything.
If he only understood what had happened, if he could see through the games and the players, he’d know who was really to blame. And who his own friends really were.
He shifted to his side, pulling his blankets with him. They smelled of dust and sweat. The night was too warm to justify them, but he found the cloth comforting. He sighed and his belly gumbled. The Haavirkin seer had been right in her way. Maybe she was as wise at the prince said. Geder considered finding her in the morning, asking her more questions. Even if it were all superstition and nonsense, it would give him something to think about in the long, isolated nights in the desert.
He didn’t notice that he was falling asleep until he woke. Sunlight glowed the fresh yellow of wildflowers, and the brief dew made the world smell cooler than it was. He pulled on his hose and a tunic. It was rougher wear than he’d had last night, but he wasn’t going to a princely feast. And after all, this was the Keshet. Standards were likely different. The wooden buildings still stood, and Geder marched out toward them, his gaze shifting, looking for the sentries. He didn’t see them.
He didn’t see anyone.
When he reached the structures, the great open square where he’d dined less than a day before, they were deserted. When he called out, no one answered. It would have been like a children’s song where they’d all been ghosts, except he could follow the footprints and smell the horse droppings and see the not-quite-dead coals still lurking white and red in the firepit. The horses were gone, the men and women, but the wagons remained. The heavy winches that the prince’s servants used to construct their sudden towns were still where they had been. He even found the long chains that the seer had worn, wrapped around a bronze spool and dropped in the dust.
He went back to his own camp, where his squire was just putting down a meal of stewed oats and watered cider. Geder sat at his field table, looking at the tin bowl, then up at the abandoned camp.
“They left in the middle of the night,” Geder said. “Took what they could carry without making noise and slipped away in the darkness.”
“Perhaps the prince was robbed and murdered by his men,” his squire said. “Things like that happen in the Keshet.”
“Lucky we weren’t caught up in it,” Geder said. His oats were honey-sweet. His cider had a bite to it, despite the water. His squire stood quietly by while Geder ate and the other servants struck camp. The sun was hardly two handspans above the horizon when Geder finished. He wanted to be away, back on his own path, and the eerily silent camp left well behind.
He did wonder, though, what else the Haavirkin had seen, and what she had told her prince after the foreign guest had left.
Marcus
I would prefer to give it to Magistra bel Sarcour directly,” the man said. “No disrespect, sir, but my contracts don’t have your thumb on them.”
He was a smallish man, the top of his head coming no higher than Marcus’s shoulder, and his clothes smelled like his shop: sandalwood, pepper, cumin, and fennel. His face was narrow as a fox, and his smile looked practiced. The lower rooms of the Medean bank of Porte Oliva had Marcus, Yardem, Ahariel the stout Kurtadam, and the ever-present Roach. The weight of their blades alone was likely as much as the spicer, and yet the man’s disdain for them radiated like heat from a fire.
“But since she isn’t here,” Marcus said, “I’m what you’ve got to work with.”
The spicer’s eyebrows rose and his tiny little lips pressed thin. Yardem coughed, and Marcus felt a stab of chagrin. The Tralgu was right.
“However,” Marcus went on, “if you’ll accept our hospitality for a few minutes, sir, I’ll do my best to find her.”
“That’s better,” the man said. “Perhaps a cup of tea while I wait?”
I could kill you with my hands, Marcus thought, and it was enough to evoke the smile that etiquette called for.
“Roach?” Marcus said. “If you could see our guest is comfortable?”
“Yes, Captain,” the little Timzinae said, jumping up. “If you’ll come this way, sir?”
Marcus stepped out the door and onto the street, Yardem following him as close as a shadow. The evening sun was still high in the western sky. The pot of tulips in front of the bank was in full, brilliant bloom, the flowers sporting bright red petals veined with white.
“You take the Grand Market,” Yardem said, “I’ll check the taproom.”
Marcus shook his head and spat on the paving stones.
“If you’d rather find her, I can go to the Grand Market,” Yardem said.
“Stay here,” Marcus said. “I’ll be right back.”
Marcus walked down the street. Sweat pooled between his shoulder blades and down his spine. A yellow-faced dog looked up at him from the shadow of an alleyway, panting and too hot to bark. The streets were emptier now than they would be after sunset, the light driving people to shelter more effectively than darkness. Even the voices of the beggars and street sellers seemed overcooked and limp.
The taproom was cool by comparison. The candles were unlit to keep from adding even that little extra heat to the darkness, and so despite the brightness of the street, the tables of the common room were dim. Marcus squinted, willing his eyes sharper. There were a dozen people there of several races, but none of them was her. From the back, Cithrin laughed. Marcus threaded his way across the common room, following the familiar tones of her voice to the draped cloth that kept the private tables private.
“… would have the effect of rewarding the most reliable debtors.”
“Only until they start becoming unreliable,” a man’s voice said speaking more softly. “Your system encourages debtors to extend, and if that goes on long enough, you change good risks to bad.”
“Magistra,” Marcus said. “If you have a moment?”
Cithrin pulled aside the cloth. As Marcus had expected, the half-Jasuru man was with her. Qahuar Em. The competition. A plate of cheese and pickled carrots sat on the table between them alongside a wine bottle well on its way to empty. Cithrin’s dress of embroidered linen flattered her figure, and her hair, which had been pulled back, was spilling in casual disarray down her shoulder.
“Captain?”
Marcus nodded toward the alley door. Profound annoyance flashed across Cithrin’s face.
“I could step out,” Qahuar Em offered.
“No. I’ll be right back,” Cithrin said. Marcus followed her out. The alley stank of spoiled food and piss. Cithrin folded her arms.
“The spicer’s come with the commissions for the week,” Marcus said. “He won’t give over to anyone but you.”
Cithrin’s frown drew lines at the corners of her mouth and between her brow. Her fingers tapped gently against her arms.
“He wants to talk about somet
hing else,” she said.
“And not with your hired swords,” Marcus said. “That’s my assumption.”
The girl nodded, attention shifting inward.
It was moments like this, when she forgot herself, that she changed. The false maturity that Master Kit and the players had trained her into was convincing, but it wasn’t Cithrin. And the giddy young woman who shifted between overconfidence and insecurity wasn’t her either. With her face smooth, her mind moving in its own silence, she gave a hint of the woman that was in her. The woman she was becoming. Marcus looked away from her, down the alley, and told himself that by doing it he was giving her privacy.
“I should see him,” Cithrin said. “He’s at the house?”
“Roach and Yardem are with him.”
“I should hurry, then,” she said, humor warming the words.
“I can give Qahuar your regrets—”
“No, tell him I’ll be right back. I don’t want him to leave without me.”
Marcus hesitated, then nodded. Cithrin walked off down the alleyway, careful where she stepped, until she reached the corner, turned into the street, and disappeared. Marcus stood in the reeking shadows for a long moment, then ducked back inside. The half-Jasuru was still sitting at the table, chewing a pickled carrot and looking thoughtful. At a guess, the man was a few years younger than Marcus, though the Jasuru blood made it hard to be sure. The vesitigial scales of his skin and the vibrant green eyes reminded Marcus of a lizard.
“The magistra’s called away for a few minutes. Small business,” Marcus said. “She said she’d be right back.”
“Of course,” Qahuar Em said, then gestured toward the seat where Cithrin had been. “Would you like to wait with me, Captain Wester?”
The wise choice would be to walk away. Marcus nodded his thanks and sat.
“You’re the actual Marcus Wester?” the man asked, motioning to the servant boy for a mug of ale.
“Someone had to be,” Marcus said.
“I’m honored. I hope you don’t mind my saying, I’m surprised to see a man of your fame doing guard work, even for the Medean bank.”
“I’m well enough known among a certain group of people,” Marcus said. “Just walking down the streets, I could be anyone.”
“Still, after Wodford and Gradis, I’d have thought you could command any price you asked as the head of a mercenary company.”
“I don’t work for kings,” Marcus said as the servant boy set the mug onto the table before him. “It narrows my options. Since we’re on good terms, you and I…?”
Qahuar nodded him on.
“I didn’t know you could mix Firstblood and Jasuru,” Marcus said. “You’re the first I’ve seen.”
The man spread his hands. And yet here I am.
“We’re more common in Lyoneia. And there’s some work people would rather give a man who has no family.”
“Ah,” Marcus said. “You’re a mule, then? No children.”
“My blessing and my curse.”
“I knew some men like that in the north. You get it with Cinnae and Dartinae mixes too. Knew some men who just claimed it too. Made them more popular with the women. Safe.”
“There are consolations,” Qahuar said, smiling.
Marcus imagined himself reaching across the table and breaking the man’s neck. It would be difficult. Jasuru were strong bastards, and fast besides. He took a long drink of his ale. It tasted of the brewery Cithrin had bought into. Clearly she’d arranged a deal with the taphouse. Qahuar cocked his head, smiling politely with his sharp-tipped teeth.
She’s half your age, Marcus thought. She’s still a child. But he couldn’t say that either.
“How are you finding life in Porte Oliva?” Marcus said instead.
“I like it here. I miss being with my clan, but if I can bring them work… Well, it’s worth the price.”
“Must be an impressive clan to go against the Medean bank. Not many would do that.”
“I think of it more as the Medean bank going against us. It’ll be a good fight. Magistra Cithrin is an impressive woman.”
“I’ve always thought so,” Marcus said.
“Have you worked with her for a long time?”
“We met in Vanai,” Marcus said. “Came out here with her.”
“She’s a good employer?”
“I’ve got no complaints.”
“There was talk about you, you know. A simple branch bank, even one with a holding company like the Medean, with Marcus Wester guarding their house? People have read that as a sign that Magistra Cithrin favors a broader, more military strategy.”
“What do you think?” Marcus asked, keeping voice neutral.
“What do I think?” Qahuar said, leaning back against the wall. His brow was furrowed as if he were considering his own thoughts for the first time. He lifted a finger. “I think you have chosen this work because you aren’t interested in fielding a private army. And so I think the magistra isn’t either.”
“Interesting thought.”
“You’re a valuable man, Captain Wester. Many people know it.”
Marcus laughed.
“Are you trying to bribe me?” he asked. “You are, aren’t you? You’re asking whether I can be bought?”
“Can you?” Qahuar Em asked without the slightest hint of shame in his voice.
“There’s not enough gold in the world,” Marcus said.
“I understand and respect that. But you understand that my duty to my clan required me to ask.”
Marcus finished the last of his ale in a gulp and stood up.
“We have any more business, sir?”
Qahuar shook his head.
“Truly, I am honored to have met you, Captain Wester. I respect you and I respect your employer.”
“Good to know,” Marcus said, and then walked back out through the common room to wait for Cithrin on the street, and the heat be damned. When she came, hurrying down the street like a girl her own age, Marcus stepped out. Sweat beaded her skin and smudged the paints that she’d put to her eyes and lips.
“It’s taken care of,” Cithrin said. “It’s good you came for me. That man’s a pretentious ass, but he’s going to be very useful.”
“Your suitor in there tried to bribe me,” Marcus said.
Cithrin paused, and he could see the chagrin in her eyes for less than a heartbeat, and then the mask fell back in place. She became neither the girl nor the woman-still-to-be but the false sophisticate that Master Kit had fashioned. It was the Cithrin that Marcus liked least.
“Of course he did,” she said. “I wouldn’t have expected any less. Captain, I may not be returning to the house tonight. If I’m not there in the morning, don’t be alarmed. I’ll send word.”
She might as well have thrown a brick at his head. He’s your enemy and I forbid you to sleep with that man and Please don’t do this crowded each other out. All he could manage was a nod. Cithrin must have seen something of it in his eyes, because she put her hand on his arm and squeezed gently before she went back inside.
Marcus walked back down the street toward the house, then stopped, turned, and headed for the port instead. The sun, lazing down toward the horizon, pressed on his right cheek like a hand. Near the port, the traffic on the streets thickened. Someone had started putting up streamers of thread, the knots hung from windows and trees, the trailing ends blowing in the breeze like the tentacles of a jellyfish. The street puppeteers were staking out corners and public squares, sitting at them even when they weren’t performing. The ships from Narinisle might not arrive for weeks, but the celebration was already being prepared.
The smell of the port itself was brine and fish guts. Marcus threaded his way past sailors and longshoremen, beggars and queensmen, to the wide square just past the final dock. Two taphouses and a public bath pressed for attention at the edges of the square, bright cloth banners and bored-looking women in too little cloth. At the farthest edge, a crowd stood enthralled around
a theater cart. Master Kit wore a flowing robe of scarlet and gold and a wire-worked crown. He held Sandr’s unmoving body in his arms, a thin trickle of red-tinted water dripping down the boy’s flank.
“How? How have I let this be? Oh Errison, Errison my son! My only son!” Master Kit called out, his voice breaking carefully so that all the words were still clear, and then slipped gracefully into verse. “I swear, dear boy, and heed this call! By dragon’s blood and bones of God, Alysor house shall fall!”
Kit froze then, and a moment later, applause rang out. Marcus shifted forward through the crowd as Cary and Smit took the stage, Smit in a mockup of steel armor made from felt and tin and Cary in a tight black dress that had clearly been cut for Opal. Marcus watched through the long final act as the ancient rivalry between noble houses slaughtered first the guilty and then the innocent, mothers killing their daughters, fathers falling to poisons meant for their sons, and the world in general crashing in until at last Master Kit stood alone, all the other players lying at his feet, and wept. By the time the company rose, grinning to take their bows and gather the coins thrown to them, Marcus’s mind was almost back in order.
As the company broke down the stage, Marcus walked to the back. Master Kit had changed back to his more customary clothes and was leaning against the seawall and wiping his face with a soft cloth. He smiled when he saw Marcus.
“Captain! Good to see you. What did you think of the show?”
“Convinced me,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear it. Hornet! Watch the line there. No, the one you’re standing on!”
Leviathan Wakes: Book One of The Expanse Page 89