“It must. Indeed it must. Lord Ternigan didn’t come either.”
“He may have been called for elsewhere,” Geder said.
“That’s it. I’m sure that’s it.”
In the dark streets, a dog yapped and complained. The breeze that felt cool in the crowded ballrooms and gardens was chill now.
“Court events usually don’t have everyone appear,” Geder said. “I wasn’t even expecting this much.”
“Of course not. And it was quite a thing, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
They lapsed into silence. Geder’s back ached. Between riding and dancing, he expected to feel half crippled in the morning.
“Geder?”
Geder grunted.
“Be careful with these men. They aren’t always what they seem. Even when they take your side, it’s best to spare an eye for them.”
“I will,” Geder said.
“And don’t forget who you are. Whoever they want you to be, don’t forget who you really are.”
“I won’t.”
“Good,” Lerer Palliako said. He was hardly more than a shadow against a shadow, except that the starlight caught his eyes. “That’s my good boy.”
Marcus
Marcus leaned low, arms to his sides. The pommel of the blackwood sword in his hand was slick with sweat. The Firstblood boy shifting on the far side of the pit wore a pair of fighter’s trousers and a serious expression. Marcus waited. The boy licked his lips and hefted his sword.
“No hurry,” Marcus said.
The air of the gymnasium was hot, close, and damp. The grunts and shouts of the other fighters struggled over the rush of water in the pipes that fed baths. At least a dozen men stood around the edges of the pit. Most were Kurtadam or Firstblood, though a pair of Timzinae held themselves a little apart. And Yardem Hane, panting and sweat-soaked. No Cinnae had come.
Marcus saw the boy’s weight shift, committing to the attack. The boy held his sword to the side, eastern-style, so he had some training. Marcus blocked, chalk dust rising from the blackwood blade, and moved to the boy’s left. The boy turned, and Marcus brought his sword down overhand. The boy blocked so aggressively that both swords bounced back. Marcus shifted the blade to his left hand and struck again, low this time, watching the boy’s stance.
Avoiding both of Marcus’s blows emboldened him. The boy took a firmer grip, feinted clumsily to the right, and darted left. Marcus blocked the attack casually, pulling his blade through the thick air to slap hard across the boy’s chest. Marcus watched his opponent stumble back. The chalked practice sword left a line from the boy’s lowest rib up to his collarbone.
“Who’s next?” he called.
“That’s the last, sir,” Yardem said.
“Thank you, Captain Wester, sir,” the boy said. The skin where Marcus had struck was red and rising. He felt a passing chagrin. He hadn’t meant to hurt him.
“Thank you, son. You did well,” Marcus said, and the boy grinned.
Marcus put his hands on the side of the pit and pulled himself up. He ached from shoulder to foot, and the pain felt good. Yardem tossed him a wad of the threadbare cloth, and Marcus wiped the sweat off his face and neck. This was the third collection of men they’d tried as new additions to the company. As with the others, it had been a mixed lot. Some had come because they were desperate and had no skills apart from a willingness to cause pain. Others because, by doing it, they could say they’d been in the pit against Marcus Wester. And a few—no more than a handful—because it was the work they knew and they happened to be at loose ends when Marcus had put out his call.
One of the latter was a stout Kurtadam with a gray-gold pelt and a Cabral acent. Marcus met Yardem’s gaze and pointed his chin toward the candidate. Yardem nodded once.
“You,” Marcus said. “What was your name again, friend?”
“Ahariel,” the Kurtadam said. “Ahariel Akkabrian.”
“You know how to fight. What put you in Porte Oliva?”
“Took contract with a company out of Narinisle. Mostly garrison work, but the commander started bunking with the footmen. Got to be about gossip and hurt feelings, I had to get out. I was thinking of the Free Cities. Figure they’ll be jumpy for years with what happened to Vanai and all. But I heard you were looking.”
“It won’t be garrison work,” Marcus said.
The Kurtadam shrugged.
“I figured you have your pick of work. Wodford and Gradis and all. If it was good enough to hold you, it’d be enough for a sword-and-bow like me.”
“You’re an optimist,” Marcus said. “But we’d be pleased to have you if the terms suffice.”
“Wouldn’t waste your time if they didn’t,” Ahariel said.
“Report in the morning, then. We’ll put you on the duty roster.”
Ahariel saluted, turned, and walked away.
“I like him,” Marcus said. “Doesn’t talk much.”
“Fit right in, sir,” Yardem said.
“Feels good, having a real company again.”
“Does.”
Marcus dropped the scrap of cloth onto the edge of the pit.
“Is it time?” he asked.
“We should go soon,” Yardem said.
The early summer streets of Porte Oliva were hot and crowded. Beggars haunted the corners, and the press of bodies in the streets seemed to add as much heat as the wide, golden coastal sun. The air smelled of the ocean, of honey and hot oil and cumin. The clothes also changed. No jackets, no cloaks. Cinnae men and women strode through the street in diaphanous robes that made their thin bodies seem to shift and bend like shadows or spirits. The Kurtadam shaved themselves until there was hardly enough fur to tie beads onto and wore loincloths and halters barely sufficient to protect the most basic modesty. It was the Firstblood, though, that kept Marcus’s attention. Men and women split out of their winter cocoons into bright colors, green and yellow and pink. Tunics were cut down the sides to let air and covert glances skid across bare skin. Every day had the feeling of festival about it.
Marcus didn’t like it.
It reminded him too much of a time when he’d been young and unable to distinguish lust from affection, and memories of that time always led to the times that came after. Meeting a blue-eyed girl named Alys, wooing her with brave tales and pale flowers. The nights of longing, and then one moonlit night at the end of springtime, a shared apple, a kiss beside a waterfall, and the end of longing. His perfect woman. In a just world, she’d be with him still.
Meriam would have been old enough now to suffer the same stirrings and confusions of the flesh, and he would have been as powerless to force wisdom upon her as his father had been with him. But no. By now she’d have been old enough to have married young and imprudently. Another season, and Marcus might have been tickling a grandson under the chin. Being reminded of all those unlived moments was what he disliked about the city. But it was also what he disliked about the world. So long as there was work that needed doing, he could put it all aside.
The question of where to put the permanent home of the new bank had been easily solved when Cithrin spoke to the daughter of the gambler whose stall they slept above. She’d been hoping to talk her father into leaving the trade for years, and had very nearly succeeded. The lower floor was wide enough to support a small barracks, and the basement had an iron strongbox set in stone and countersunk deep into the earth. And so now, where the gambler’s stall had once been, the Medean bank of Porte Oliva now lived in modest elegance. The day that the old gambler had signed the contracts, Cithrin announced the change by having the walls repainted in the brightest white she could find. Where the caller had stood, chanting his litany of wagers and odds, a wide tin pot filled with black soil had the thin green stalks and broad sloping leaves of half a dozen tulips still only threatening to bloom.