“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!”