Alone in his bed, by the light of a single candle, he took out Cithrin’s note. He wished she’d been able to stay. That she’d seen what he was planning and arranging for Aster. She cared about Aster. He knew that. He could tell that she’d be pleased with all the things he had in mind.
He pressed paper to his mouth, breathing in through his nose in hopes of catching some slight scent that was her. All he found was ink and paper, but the thought of her was enough. He placed the letter carefully by his bed and lay back. Sleep was far from him, but it didn’t bother him. His mind was full and awake and aware.
I will be paying close attention to news from Antea, she’d written. And what an amazing thing she would see.
He would bring peace to the world.
Cithrin
Cithrin and Paerin Clark had left Camnipol like thieves in the night. Much of King Tracian’s party had escaped during the fighting, and those few that hadn’t might stay on past the departure of the Medean bank. Cithrin found she didn’t particularly care. With Asterilhold open, there was no call to ride north and take ship. Paerin used the money he had to buy a light cart and a fast, reliable team of horses, and they were off. She couldn’t help but remember leaving Vanai, it seemed a lifetime ago. In a way, it had been.
The plains of Asterilhold were in ruins where Kalliam’s army had passed. Grasslands had been churned to mud. Forests had been cut to the ground. The bones of the world were exposed here. The great wound was the aftermath of a short, successful war. Cithrin could hardly imagine what a longer one might have done.
Paerin Clark passed the hours with talk of finance and coinage, and Cithrin kept the pace he set. He told stories of how the Borjan kings had minted two separate currencies, one for trade and the other for tax, and that the two had been intentionally inconvertible. A man might accrue all the wealth the market could deliver and still not pay his taxes if that was in the interest of the Regos and his council. Cithrin told him about coming to Porte Oliva nearly penniless apart from the massive hoard of wealth she was smuggling and the creation of a fashion for Hallskari salt dyes out of a load of ruined cloth. The things they never spoke of as if by explicit consent were Antea, Camnipol, and what had happened during the long days of hiding.
Which wasn’t to say that they didn’t talk about Geder Palliako.
“So he never left the place?” Paerin Clark said. “You’re sure.”
“Fairly. I suppose he could have gone out while I was and gotten back before me, but he didn’t say it. Neither did Aster. And I don’t know why they’d have lied to me about it.”
“Well, maybe they didn’t,” he said. “It’s just that there were so many stories of people who saw him during the battle, it’s astonishing that there wouldn’t be one of them that was at least partially true.”
“People see what they want to see, I suppose,” she said. “I’d find the idea of a ruler skilled and dedicated enough to take to the streets in costume and defeat the enemies of the crown reassuring. Or terrifying. One or the other.”
“Hmm,” was Paerin’s only reply.
Approached from the east, Carse looked like a different city. The farmhouses and hamlets gave way slowly to larger buildings with more families living in each, and then suddenly the towers that had been on the horizon were all about them, reaching up toward the hazy white sky. And only a little bit beyond that, the cliff and the Thin Sea. She had spent so little time in Carse on her way out. The quest to undermine Pyk Usterhall seemed like something another woman had done. Her relief at being back in the great fortress of the holding company was like coming back to the house of a dear friend. Even a lover.
But it was nothing like home.
Lauro and Komme came to greet the cart. The older man’s gout was between flares, and he looked ten years younger without the lines of pain in his face. Chana was at the market, and Paerin left the cart to a servant so that he could go out to find her there. Magister Nison also appeared, friendly and laughing, and digging for every scrap of information and gossip he could.
A room had been set aside for Cithrin, and she walked up the stairs to it gratefully. It wasn’t large, but it was comfortable: a small bed, a writing desk, a lantern of glass and silver that managed to be both elegant and ornate. The rug was woven from reeds and felt surprisingly soft beneath her feet.
And beside the bed, a satchel made of red leather that she didn’t recognize. When she opened it, a double handful of papers came out, along with a small lacquer box with the image of a stork taking flight inlaid on the lid. Most of the papers were letters from Porte Oliva and Pyk. Cithrin read through them. The loan to a new brewer had gone south, and the stock and equipment sold at cost to the other brewer with whom they had partnered. The ultimate loss was minimal. Dar Cinlama, the explorer who had given Cithrin the dragon’s tooth that was still in her bags, had gone off into the Dry Wastes with a party of a hundred, and hadn’t come back. Either he’d found something of interest or something had found him of interest. The way it was written, she could hear the contempt in the Yemmu woman’s voice.
Certain belongings of Marcus Wester’s had been taken from the warehouse and sold. The proceeds were being held by Yardem Hane. Nothing else was on that letter. No explanation of why Marcus had left or where he’d gone that he couldn’t take his money with him. That was the first order of business when she got home, and no doubts.
The last report wasn’t from Porte Oliva at all, but from the holding company itself. It included records copied from Porte Oliva, and before that from Vanai. It was the complete accounting of the deposits her parents had put in the bank before they died, and how the money had been spent in the meantime. A depositor’s report in the name of Cithrin bel Sarcour.
The lacquer box was listed among the assets.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Komme Medean said from the doorway. “Chana didn’t think you would, but I knew. I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“You’ve come of age. While you were in Camnipol hiding from God knows what with I frankly can’t believe who, you became a woman. Chana thought that something that important wouldn’t go unnoticed. I thought you’d already crossed that line in your own mind so long ago, it would matter very little to you.”
Cithrin opened the lacquer box. Inside was a necklace of white gold with pale emeralds just the color of her eyes. Cithrin found herself moved.
“I think your mother must have had coloring very much like your own,” Komme Medean said. “Would you like some help fastening it?”
“Please,” she said.
The old fingers were steady and sure. The necklace lay against her collarbone. It wasn’t the right length for the clothes she was wearing now, but the paler dress would leave it looking brilliant. She smiled and bowed her head.
“Thank you,” she said. “I couldn’t have asked for better parents than the bank has been.”
Komme Medean smiled.
“You’re a forger and an extortionist. From what I hear, you like wine entirely too much for your own good. And Pyk Usterhall thinks the part of your brain that measures risk was underfed when you were a babe. None of this has changed. Only one thing is different now than it was when you left.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,” Komme Medean said. “Now I can hold you to your contracts.”
“Does that mean I can stop being the playtoy magistra with Pyk pulling my strings?”
“You hate that, don’t you?” he said.