“It’s weeks on the road!” Cam shouted. “Months, if there’s snow in the pass.”
Magister Imaniel turned, rage lighting his eyes. His voice was low and cold.
“What would you have me do? Keep her here? She’s no safer in our beds than passing for a carter in a caravan. And I will not simply accept the loss.”
“I don’t understand,” Cithrin said. Her voice sounded distant in her ears, as if she were shouting over surf.
“The prince’s men are watching us,” Magister Imaniel said. “I must assume they’re watching anyone in the bank’s employ. And, I expect, the bank’s ward, Cithrin the half-Cinnae. Tag the Carter, on the other hand…”
“The carter?” Cithrin said, echoing him more than thinking thoughts of her own.
“The cart’s false,” Cam said, her voice thick with despair. “Besel was set to take it. Smuggle out all the money we can.”
“The gold?” Cithrin said. “You want me to take the gold to Carse?”
“Some, yes,” Magister Imaniel said. “But gold’s heavy. We’re better sending gems and jewelry. They’re worth more. Spices. Tobacco leaf. Silk. Things light enough they’ll pack tight and won’t break the axles. And the account books. The real ones. As for the coins and ingots… well, I’ll think of something.”
He smiled like the mask of a smile. Besel’s corpse seemed to shift its shoulders in the flickering light. A draught of cold air rubbed against her bare thighs, and the knot in her belly tightened until she tasted vomit in the back of her mouth.
“You can do this thing, my dear,” Magister Imaniel said. “I have faith in you.”
“Thank you,” she said, swallowing.
Cithrin walked through the streets of Vanai, her stomach in knots. The false mustache was the sort of thin, weedy thing a callow boy might cultivate and be proud of. Her clothes were a mix of Besel’s shirts and jackets resewn in the privacy of the bank and whatever cheap, mended rags could be scrounged. They hadn’t dared to buy anything new. Her hair was tea-stained to an almost colorless brown and combed forward to obscure her face. She walked with the wider gait Magister Imaniel had taught her, a knot of uncomfortable cloth held tight against her sex to remind her that she was supposed to have a cock.
She felt worse than foolish. She felt like a mummer in clown face and comic shoes. She felt like the most obvious fraud in the city, or the world. And every time she closed her eyes, Besel’s corpse waited for her. Every voice that called out started her heart skipping faster. She waited for the knife, the arrow, the lead-tipped cudgel. But the streets of Vanai didn’t notice her.
Everywhere, the final preparations for the war were being made. Merchants nailed their windows closed. Wagons clogged the streets as families who had chosen not to flee to the countryside changed their minds and left and others that had gone changed their minds and returned. Criers in the service of the prince announced the improbable thousand men on the march now from their new allies, and the old Timzinae men by the quayside laughed and said they’d all be better off Antean than married to Maccia. Press gangs scattered people before them like wolves snapping at hens. And in the Old Quarter, the tall, dark, richly carved doors of Master Will’s shop were flung wide. The street was jammed with carts and wagons, mules and horses and oxen. The caravan was forming in the square, and Cithrin made her way through the press of the crowd toward the wide, leather-capped form of Master Will.
“Sir,” she said in a soft, low voice. Master Will didn’t answer, and so uncertainly she tugged at his sleeve.
“What?” the old man said.
“My name’s Tag, sir. I’ve come to drive Magister Imaniel’s cart.”
Master Will’s eyes went wide for a moment and he glanced around to see if they’d been heard. Cithrin cursed silently. Not Magister Imaniel’s cart. The bank didn’t have a cart. She was driving the wool cart. It was her first mistake. Master Will coughed and took her by the shoulder.
“You’re late, boy. I thought you might not come.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“For God’s sake, child, try not to talk.”
He led her quickly through the press to a deep, narrow cart. The weathered wood planks looked sturdy enough, and a canvas tarp over the top would keep the rain off the bolts of tight-packed grey cloth. The axles were thick iron, and the wheels bound with steel. It looked to Cithrin like obviously more of a wagon than mere cloth would need. The two mules in harness hardly seemed enough to pull a thing that big. Surely, surely they could all see through the sham. The prince’s guards hardly needed to glance at her to understand everything. Her gut tightened harder, and she thanked the angels she hadn’t been able to eat that morning. She didn’t know how well her false whiskers would survive vomiting. Master Will leaned close to her, his lips brushing against her ear.
“The first two layers are wool,” he said. “Everything beneath that’s in sealed boxes and casks. If the tarp fails and things get wet, just let them stew.”
“The books—” she muttered.
“The books are in enough sheepskin and wax you could drive this bastard into the sea. Don’t worry about them. Don’t think about what you’re hauling. And do not under any circumstances dig down and have a look.”
She felt a passing annoyance. Did he think she was stupid?
“You can sleep on top,” Master Will continued. “No one will think it odd. Do what the caravan master says, keep the mules healthy and fed, and keep to yourself as much as you can.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Right, then,” the old man said. He stood back and clapped her on the shoulder. His smile was forced and mirthless. “Good luck.”
He turned and walked back toward his shop. Cithrin had the powerful urge to call after him. This couldn’t be all there was. There must be something else she was supposed to do, some preparation or advice she should have. She swallowed, hunched forward, then walked around the cart. The mules met her eyes incuriously. They, at least, weren’t frightened.
“I’m Tag,” she said into their long, soft ears. And then, whispering, “I’m really Cithrin.” She wished she knew their names.
She didn’t catch sight of the soldiers until she’d climbed up to the driver’s bench. Men and women in hard leather, swords at their sides. They were Firstblood, apart from one Tralgu with rings in his ears and a huge bow slung on his shoulder. The captain of the troop, the Tralgu, and an older man in long robes and tightly knotted hair were talking animatedly with the Timzinae caravan master. Cithrin gripped the reins, her knuckles aching and bloodless. The captain nodded toward her, and the caravan master shrugged. She watched in horror as the three soldiers came toward her. She had to run. She was going to be killed.
“Boy!” the captain said, his pale eyes on her. He was a hard-faced man younger than Magister Imaniel and older than Besel. He wore his sandy hair too short for Antean style, too long for the Free Cities. He leaned forward, his eyebrows rising. “Boy? You hear me?”
Cithrin nodded.
“You aren’t dim, are you? I didn’t sign on to guard boys who are likely to wander off on their own.”
“No,” Cithrin croaked. She coughed, careful to keep her voice husky and low. “No, sir.”
“Right, then,” the captain said. “You’re driving this cart?”
Cithrin nodded.
“Well. Good. You’re the last to come, so you missed the introductions before. I’ll keep it brief. I’m Captain Wester. This is Yardem. He’s my second. And that’s our cunning man, Master Kit. We’re guard on this ’van, and I’d be obliged if you did whatever we said, whenever we said it. We’ll get you through safe to Carse.”
Cithrin nodded again. The captain mirrored her, clearly not yet convinced she wasn’t dim.
“Right,” he said, turning away. “Let’s get going.”