The Widow's House

Marcus

The Thin Sea that divided Northcoast from Narinisle was calm water, for the most part. The currents were predictable, the winds smelling of land and metal. The small ship with its shallow draft and high masts had been built to travel quickly and maneuver well. The lumbering roundships with the little flotilla to protect them had fallen away in a matter of hours, slowed by their shapes and their load. Even so, as near as they were to Carse, Marcus didn’t expect they’d reach the city more than a day or two before the rest caught up.

Kit and Cithrin stood together at the bow, deep in conversation. Marcus sat at the stern, looking out over the water with a scowl. The white cliffs of Carse were hardly more than a thickening of the horizon. The water they crossed could almost have been anywhere. It was only knowing where they were and where they were headed that made the waves seems familiar.

The last time Marcus had been in Carse, he’d been a younger man, and a hotter one. He’d thrown King Springmere’s body off those cliffs first and his head afterward. If he thought about it, he could still conjure up the stickiness of the dead man’s blood-drenched hair. The stink of the body. It had been months of work and planning. Schemes and conspiracies. He had cut out all of Springmere’s support, undermined the throne that Marcus had given him, until the day came when wearing a crown was no defense.

Springmere hadn’t asked him why. Hadn’t begged. As soon as the trap closed around him, he’d known why. Alys and Merian. Marcus’s wife and daughter. Marcus had imagined any number of things he might say there at the end. He’d practiced whole speeches about justice and falsehood and the kind of cowardice that could bring a man to betray his own allies. I gave you Northcoast, Marcus had said a thousand times in the privacy of his mind, and I will take it back.

He hadn’t actually said any of it when the time came. He’d kicked Springmere down and sawn off his head while the man burbled and screamed. As moments of sublime justice went, it had been ugly, brutish, and unsatisfying. When Springmere’s corpse was feeding the crabs and gulls at the base of the cliffs, he had stood for a moment, waiting for the peace that he’d expected retribution to bring. There hadn’t been any. His wife and child were still dead because he’d given his loyalty to an untrustworthy man. He hadn’t expected vengeance to bring them back, but he had thought that it might ease the pain of missing them. Just a bit.

The cliffs grew from a thick line to a ragged curve. The port at the base was still invisible, but Carse itself would be in view soon. Gulls chased the ship and the sailors cursed at them. Low, pale clouds floated and shifted against the late summer blue. Marcus watched for the city with his shoulders tensed and waited for the blow.

Yardem came up from belowdecks, his nose lifted to the wind and his ears canted forward. He nodded to the ship’s mate as he passed, but didn’t speak until he came close to Marcus.

“Been some time since we were here last,” Yardem said.

“Has. I keep having to remind myself it’s not Lady Tracian we’ll be speaking with. Her boy wasn’t much more than a thumb and an overwhelming sense of entitlement last time I saw him.”

“He was a boy,” Yardem said.

“Well, he’s a king now.”

“Is,” Yardem said. “Because of you.”

“Maybe he’ll be grateful.”

“Open to a pleasant surprise. Regret that you didn’t put the crown on your own head?”

“Are you joking?”

“A bit, yes.”

“There was that baker. You remember the one? With the apple tarts shaped like stars? What was her name?”

“Steyen,” Yardem said with a wide, canine smile.

“That’s right. Steyen. I wonder if she’s still about.”

“Suppose we’ll find out,” Yardem said.

“Yep.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“They may try to kill us,” Yardem said. “Slaughtering the old king can leave the new king nervous.”

“That had occurred to me too. But we have Cithrin and Kit. And if he doesn’t, though, the apple tarts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s also entirely possible that we’re old news. Everything we did was a long way from here, and the world does move on.”

“You think they just won’t recall us?”

“I can hope.”

The docks were crowded with ships of a dozen different designs. Marcus recognized banners and shipping marks from as far as Kort and Suddapal. Carts and dockhands crawled across the wooden piers like ants. The wind was coming in gusts now, complicating their landing. Marcus strapped the blasted sword on his back again. The rash where the scabbard rested against his shoulder hadn’t quite healed since he’d stowed the damned thing after fleeing Porte Oliva. The poison that it carried made his joints ache a little. Or maybe he was just getting old.

Kit and Yardem stood with him, trying to stay clear of the sailors. Kit squinted up at the wooden stairs that climbed up the vast cliff face. They’d moved since the last time Marcus had seen them. In his memory, he could still follow the turns and switchbacks and landings of the old stairs, but the cliff face was soft, and nothing that hung from it lasted for long.

“You’ve been to Carse before?” Yardem asked.

“Yes,” Kit said. “Many times. In my experience, sex farces and tragedies of character play well here. Religious subjects and tragedies of politics less so. They seem busier than I recall them being.”

“It’s the war,” Marcus said. “You can usually see a little shifting of the trade ships when there’s a good, rolling war on. It isn’t usually this much, though.”

“I think there isn’t usually a war like this one,” Kit said. “It seems no place has gone entirely untouched by it. Even those where Antean blades haven’t gone have changed.”

“That’s true,” Marcus said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it affected the blue-water trade too. Even Far Syramys will smell the wind off this fire. Truth is the world hasn’t seen a war like this one since the last time our new friend was in the skies.”

“Same one,” Yardem said.

“Sorry?” Marcus said.

“It’s not like the fall of the Dragon Empire,” Yardem said. “It is the fall of the Dragon Empire.”

“Suppose that’s true,” Marcus said.

“I don’t know that I find that reassuring,” Kit said.

Yardem flicked a jingling ear. “Didn’t mean it to be.”

A guide boat came alongside, a Cinnae man in the bows with a dun-colored speaking trumpet. The ship’s mate shouted down to him, and for what seemed the better part of an hour, they negotiated back and forth, until the mate finally shouted a string of curses, tossed away his speaking horn, and called for the sails to be raised again and the course set. The deck lurched and creaked as the low sails caught the breeze and the ship turned for an empty slip. The guide boat moved ahead, shouting and hectoring both the crew and the other boats that threatened to cross their path. They were just starting to tie up at the dock when Cithrin emerged from below. The blue dress draped in Elassean style as if she wanted to remind the king of all the cities and nations that had fallen in the past few seasons. She’d touched her lips and cheeks with red, but only just. She moved across the deck with sure steps. She was beautiful, but not the way a girl searching for a boy might be. It was the beauty of a well-made knife. From the style of her hair to the tilt of her shoulders, everything about her spoke of competence. He tried to see the thin-limbed, frightened, overwhelmed girl he’d met on the last caravan from Vanai. He couldn’t find her. She wasn’t so many years older than she had been, and also she was. A small sorrow plucked at him that he hadn’t been able to make the world an easier place for her.

“Where do we stand?” she asked smartly.

“Customs man should be aboard within the hour,” the ship’s mate said. “Once he’s cleared us, we’re sitting tight until the others come.”

“Thank you,” she said, turning to Marcus and Kit and Yardem. “This should be an interesting day.”

“Could put it that way,” Marcus said.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said, her voice solid and certain. Like she was trying to convince herself. “It is all going to be fine.”

In fact it was well over an hour before the customs magistrate walked the gangplank over and scowled along the deck. He was a Firstblood man with a bald pate, a ledger in his hand, and an air of grievance that surrounded him like a smell.

“Who’s responsible for the fees, then?”

“I’m patron,” Cithrin said.

“Mm,” the magistrate said. “All right. And what are you carrying?”

“In this ship, or the full company?”

“You’ve a full company?”

“I do. We’re the first ship of twenty.”

The magistrate laughed dismissively. “Let’s have the tally for both, then. God alone knows where you think to put twenty ships, though. It isn’t your private dock, miss. There are rules about these things.”

“Of course,” she said. “This is ship is carrying only passengers. I am Cithrin bel Sarcour, voice of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva. These are my guards and counselor.”

“Names?”

“Kitap rol Keshmet,” Kit said. “Sometimes called Master Kit.”

“I can manage Keshesti names, thank you,” the magistrate said. “You. Tralgu. Spit it out. I have other business to finish today.”

“Yardem Hane.”

The magistrate snorted. “Nice try. What’s your real name.”

“Yardem Hane.”

“Really,” the magistrate said. “And then I suppose you’ll try to tell me that this leathery old fuck is supposed to be…”

Marcus lifted his hand in a short wave. The magistrate’s face went grey as ash. His ledger fell from numb fingers, the pages splaying out on the deck.

“Think they remember us, sir,” Yardem said.

“Seems they might,” Marcus said.

The plan had been simple. Send a message ahead to the palace requesting an audience with King Tracian and his master of coin relying on Marcus’s name to catch the king’s curiosity. It had been a good plan, Marcus thought as the guards marched him and Cithrin side by side up the flights of wooden stairs. The poisoned sword was taken, as were Yardem’s blades and the little knives Cithrin and Kit had carried. Four men walked in front, four between Cithrin and Marcus at the front and Kit and Yardem behind, and four brought up the rear. Not precisely an honor guard’s formation. They hadn’t bound anyone, though, so that was a fine thing.

“Do you remember,” he said, “back when you were coming to Carse the first time to ingratiate yourself to Komme Medean and kick Pyk out of your chair?”

“I do,” Cithrin said.

“I was going to make myself part of your guard. You wouldn’t allow it.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“I’m seeing how you drew that conclusion.”

“Fame is its own punishment,” Cithrin said. Even in the somewhat threatening circumstances, her voice was bright. Somewhere along the way, she had become hard to frighten.

The cliff rose beside them and the water fell away, the masts of the ships pointing up at them like the fingers of curious giants. When they reached the edge of the cliff and the iron stairs that led to the great yard, Marcus’s legs ached and his breath was heavy. Cithrin and the others seemed fine, though, so he didn’t complain or ask for a moment’s halt. The wide, open streets of the city around him were as familiar as a house lived in as a child and seen again as a man full grown. Now that he had seen a dragon, the city made more sense. He could imagine Inys making his way between the buildings, climbing to the ancient perches and looking out over the sea. It was strange, like the memory of a word heard once in some language he hadn’t known at the time but explicable now. His own history and the city’s both came clear before him.

I have lived my whole life in Inys’s ruins, he thought, and I never understood what I was seeing.

The king’s palace rose up level above level, a massive block of dragon’s jade and stone. Walking through the southern gate into the gardens was like seeing an old friend. Or an old enemy. Marcus felt the familiar tension in his back. His lips curled into an unkind version of a smile. Apple trees heavy with fruit made a carefully manicured orchard around a fountain of dragon’s jade. His family had died burning to determine who got to sit beside that water and eat those fruits. If anyone had asked him before now, he’d have said his anger had mellowed. He’d have been wrong. The central fact of his life was still that Alys and Merian were dead, and he would never forgive the world for it.

More guards were waiting for them, though these at least had light and nicely decorated armor. Their blades would kill just as quickly, but it was possible to pretend they were merely ornamental. They led the four of them down a long hall and through a carved archway. The room wasn’t made for meeting, though for someone who hadn’t spent time studying the architecture of the palace with an eye toward murder, that might not have been obvious. It was, after all, wide and comfortable. The rails and walkways above them on all sides might almost have been intended to open the room and give it the sense of being a covered garden. It was really a place for archers to stand so that, by aiming down, they wouldn’t hit the man across the way from them. There were divans of buff-colored silk and tapestries from Far Syramys. A servant poured them water and wine and gave them plates of nuts and fresh grapes, silver bowls of cool water to refresh themselves with. Somewhere above them, as hidden as the archers, musicians were playing softly: mandolin and sand drum and harp. As slaughter pits went, it was hard to improve on.

Cithrin didn’t see the room’s threat or its potential for violence. She took her seat, relaxing into it like she came here every day. Yardem paced as if simply stretching his legs. Only Kit let himself gawk at the beauty and splendor of the palace, standing in the room’s center and turning slowly to take it all in.

“I am impressed,” Kit said.

“You’re meant to be,” Cithrin said. “We’re all meant to be.”

“That it’s intended doesn’t take away from the effect,” the actor said. “I’ve played before kings before, one time and another, but I can’t say that I’ve been here. This was what you were hoping for, wasn’t it, Cithrin?”

She smiled. “I’d hoped for more respect and less fear, but this will do. As long as we can speak to the king and his master of coin, we’ll be fine.”

“You’re a woman of great faith,” Marcus said.

The voice came from the walkway above. “Captain Wester.”

King Tracian looked more like his mother, now that he’d grown to manhood. The fat cheeks had spread to a manly if still-rounded face. The darkness of his hair showed what Lady Tracian’s must have been before the grey of age crept in. His personal guard were behind him, but without weapons drawn. The king’s robe was a deep red velvet, embroidered with a pattern Marcus couldn’t make out.

“Majesty,” Marcus said. “Been some time. I heard about your mother’s passing. I’d have come for the burial, but I thought people might misinterpret it.”

“She’d have understood why you didn’t,” King Tracian said. “I have to say I’m surprised to see you here. Especially unannounced.”

Marcus spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “Flying before the storm. If I’d had a reliable way to send a message faster than I could arrive myself… Well, I might have.”

Tracian put his hands on the railing. His gaze was fixed on Marcus like he was a puzzle the king was trying to solve. “I’ve heard some fairly astounding tales about you over the years.”

“Most of them are probably exaggerations,” Marcus said. “You know how it is when people talk.”

“People were saying you woke a dragon and flew across the world on its back.”

“You see? Exaggeration. He wouldn’t have let any of us on his back.”

Tracian laughed, and then stopped and then laughed again. Marcus knew better than to bait the man, but he couldn’t seem to help it. The urge to be the man he’d been in these halls, in this palace, was almost too powerful to overcome. He’d killed a king once, and the new king would have been a fool to forget it.

“What brings you?” King Tracian asked, his voice calm and careful.

“Majesty,” Cithrin said, bowing deeply. “Captain Wester is with me. He’s led my guard since I founded my branch of the bank.”

“Yes, Magistra bel Sarcour. I’d heard that too,” King Tracian said. “I almost thought the dragon riding more plausible than that General Wester had fallen to guard duty.”

“It has its compensations,” Marcus said. “But she’s telling you true. I wasn’t coming here at all. I’d thought we were going to Stollbourne until she told me to change course. What happened before, happened. Right now, the job’s less fighting old battles than avoiding fresh ones.”

“I’ve heard about the fall of Porte Oliva,” the king said. “You have my sympathy, of course. But I don’t know how I can help you.”

“I was thinking that I might be able to help you, Your Majesty,” Cithrin said.

“And how would you do that?” he asked.

“I was thinking of giving you a great deal of money.”