“Mercy has no reason,” Inys sighed. “Mercy justified is only justice.”
“Deep,” Marcus said.
“We don’t know who’s in charge of the uprising,” Cithrin said. “That’s in part what the courier is going to find out for us. And Isadau is going too. Barriath’s given her a fast ship and a crew.
“The good news is that the priesthood there has been closely identified with Anteans. Even if there is a schism, the priests hate the Timzinae and the Timzinae hate the priests. Komme’s fear—and I think it’s a fair one—is that when the chaos goes north into Inentai and Nus or west into the Free Cities, it’ll start reaching other races. Jasuru, Yemmu, Tralgu. People who might see a schismatic priest as an ally.”
Marcus nodded. “And then fall to their unpleasant power, lift up another bunch of fanatics, and start the whole damned war over in miniature.”
“Not miniature,” the dragon sighed, his breath pluming out yards from his mouth. “And not starting over. They will only carry it forward. More sides, more causes, more reasons to demonize and slaughter the slaves in the next valley. It was what Morade wrought.”
“Birancour is stable,” Cithrin said. “For now. But the Antean main army’s still there. The Lord Marshal and a force of cold, skinny Anteans are still tasked with hunting me down and taking me back to Camnipol in chains. And even if Jorey Kalliam’s turned sides the way his mother says, that’s not a promise they won’t try to take Northcoast come the thaw. Antea’s got a new and thriving tradition of killing off its Lords Marshal. At which point Northcoast is bound to act.”
“So chaos on both sides of Antea,” Marcus said. The dragon heaved a massive sigh. Great whiner, Marcus thought. He brought the whole thing on us, however many hundred generations back. Least he could do was pretend interest.
“Pulling the thorn here,” Cithrin said, “and keeping the fighting in the east from turning to the greatest rout in history call for the same thing. The Antean army’s well-ordered withdrawal back to Camnipol. Only there’s two priests with them talking everyone there into thinking they’re invulnerable and protected by the goddess.”
“So we’ll need to be rid of them,” Marcus said.
“And that seems to require Marcus. Or at least his sword.”
“If it takes the sword, it takes me. That’s the job. And, fairness, the prospect of not having a massive force of armed men bent on delivering you to the boy tyrant who feels you humiliated him would likely help my concentration too.”
Cithrin tilted her head, hearing something more in his words perhaps than he’d meant to say aloud.
He cleared his throat, feeling an unwelcome blush rising in his neck. He turned to the dragon and changed the subject. “How about it, Inys? Are you up for hauling a few people south? Or are your wings too weak?”
The dragon turned, real anger in its eyes. Marcus fought the urge to take a step back, but he did lower his eyes. “My wings are cut, but I am no cripple, Stormcrow. What is this that you ask of me? Be plain!”
“How many can you carry?” Cithrin asked. “I mean no disrespect, Inys. You know that. But I won’t tax your strength. Not while you’re still healing.”
“How far?” the dragon asked, scowling in a way that was both inhuman and perfectly recognizable.
“Around the army, far enough that its scouts don’t see you. And then south. It’ll be less likely to raise suspicions if they don’t seem to be coming from Northcoast.”
The dragon spread his wings. Marcus knew they’d suffered in the attack at Porte Oliva, but he hadn’t made a close inspection. It was uglier than he’d thought. There were gaps in the thick, leathery membrane. Holes. He remembered watching Inys laboring across the water toward the escaping ships and wondered just how close the dragon’s escape had been.
“I can carry myself and five others,” the dragon said.
“Let’s call it three,” Marcus said.
“Do you doubt me?”
“A little,” Marcus said. “It’s why you love me.”
The dragon bristled, bared its teeth, and then laughed. Gouts of stinking flame rolled through the winter air as Inys chuckled. The smoke rose above them, spreading until it became the sky. “Three then,” the dragon said.
“When will you be ready?” Cithrin asked.
“I am ready now,” Inys said, folding his wings together and settling heavily on his perch. The great eyes closed, with the feeling of the conclusion of a royal audience. Marcus walked at her side in silence until they reached the court where Yardem stood waiting.
“Went well?” Yardem asked.
“Didn’t end with us burned or in his belly,” Marcus said. “Willing to call that a victory. So me for the sword. This Lady Kalliam to get me past the guards. Maybe Enen? Kurtadam are common enough in the south she wouldn’t seem odd. Or should we keep to Firstbloods?”
“Not Yardem?” Cithrin asked.
“We’re known,” Yardem said. “A man traveling alone might be anyone. A Tralgu man with a Firstblood beside him, and people might remember stories. Especially this near to Northcoast.”
“Barriath will want to go,” Cithrin said.
“Can’t let him,” Marcus said. “Lose him for too long and his little pirate fleet’ll pull up stakes. Metaphorically speaking. And… Oh. Yeah.”
“I think that’s right, sir.”
“What’s right?” Cithrin asked. The cliff and the sea and the dragon retreated behind them as they walked. A Timzinae woman hurried past, wrapped in a wool scarf, the scales of her face catching the dim winter sun. “Marcus? What’s right?”
“You’re sending me in to assassinate the priests, yes?”
“Unless you’re willing to hand the sword to someone else,” Cithrin said.
“Once that’s done, though, the soldiers are going to lose all the false certainty they’ve had carrying them through. Start thinking for themselves, and since the truth is they’re hungry, exhausted, and working with shit supply lines, they’ll likely come to the fact that all’s not well pretty damned quickly. If we just wanted a mutiny or a mid-campaign disband, it’d be simple. But you want to march them back east. To do that… Well, we’ll need a priest, and that means Kit.”
“Cary won’t like it,” Yardem said.
“You can tell her, then,” Marcus said, and Yardem flicked a jingling ear. “And truth is, Kit’s just going to have to keep them together at least long enough to let them scent home. After that, they’ll likely go where we want like water running downhill.”
“Through the pass at Bellin?” Yardem said.
“Depends on how deep the snows are,” Marcus said. “Otherwise… I don’t know. The coast and by ship? I don’t like the idea of marching all the damned way south to the Free Cities again, and I can’t see King Tracian letting them through Northcoast, even if they’re sort of on our side.”
“Complicated,” Yardem agreed. “You’ll go back to Camnipol with them, then?”
“Can’t see leaving Kit behind. It’d be rude,” Marcus said, and smiled. If anyone had asked, he’d have said that being back in Carse, in Northcoast, walking down the streets that Merian and Alys had walked down once a lifetime ago, didn’t bother him. The pleasure he felt at the prospect of leaving—even leaving in disguise at the heart of an enemy army—suggested his assessment might have been optimistic. Any reason not to be here was a good one.
He wondered how much he could really trust Lady Kalliam, now that his life and Kit’s depended on her. He supposed there was an easy way to find out.
The great keep of the holding company came in sight as they rounded a corner. Carts and horses and servants in the colors of half a dozen houses swarmed the street around it. The Medean bank hadn’t been built for the constant traffic that came with governing a kingdom, much less three of them. Perhaps more. They’d have to redesign.