“I accept,” Cithrin said, taking the blade. “I am Cithrin bel Sacrour, voice of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva.”
“Lord Anton Skestinin, servant to the Severed Throne.”
“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, Lord Skestinin,” Cithrin said.
The old man smiled up at her sourly. “You’re a good liar, miss. There was a moment I almost believed you.”
“In line!” Yardem shouted. “Hands in front!”
Cithrin watched while the enemy commander and his men were manacled. The queensmen took control of them once it was done. Cithrin ordered half a dozen of her guard to make the ship fast, running ropes from the roundship itself to the trees nearest the waterline to keep it in place when the tide rose again. She rode back toward Porte Oliva, her head high and her belly relaxed for the first time she could remember. Yardem rode beside her.
“All respect, but I wish you hadn’t come,” he said. “Safer to stay back and let us handle all this.”
“I had faith you would protect me,” she said, and Yardem chuckled.
It was past nightfall when the Antean prisoners were marched into the square between the Governor’s Palace and the cathedral. All the other guests of the magistrate’s justice had been freed in celebration, and the stocks and cages, gallows and torture boxes were all empty, ready, and waiting. The crowd around them seemed to be half the city, and it was all the combined force of Cithrin’s guard and the queensmen could manage to keep them from running riot. Cithrin rode forward and formally turned the prisoners over to the governor. For a moment, the pair of them faced each other in silence. She thought she saw something like disappointment in the man’s face. He had been waiting for the order to put her and her company in chains, and she had complicated things. The thought made her smile wider.
Afterward, Cithrin led the full company of guards to the taproom nearest their barracks, split a purse of silver coins open on the keeper’s table, and told him to keep the beer coming until the coin ran out. She sat in the back, a bottle of good wine in her hand and the taste of victory on her tongue. A group of musicians, scenting the riot and joy, made their way in and struck up a tune.
In truth, though, Cithrin knew her celebration was only part of the city’s general uproar. The blockade was broken, the city freed, the ships of Porte Oliva loosed upon the seas. If it wasn’t something she had done herself, the relief of it was still as sweet. She closed her eyes and felt the rhythm of the music and the fumes of the wine carry her up until she was laughing. Madly, wildly, halfway to tears from it. Geder’s hand could not reach everywhere after all. It was like someone had taken a stone off her heart she hadn’t known was there. She hadn’t known she intended to dance until she was already up, her arm locked with Yardem’s, spinning through the little taproom like the world itself was a child’s top.
The celebration went on in a trail of emptied bottles and shrieking laughter, and Cithrin threw herself into it all. Reckless and wild and joyful, and not at all out of place. All of Porte Oliva had taken to the streets. Time shifted, drawing back from itself until the world seemed to be a symbol for itself, and her hardly more than a flourish upon the page of history. She didn’t know where she was any longer, or who. And then she was being cradled in Yardem’s massive arms like a child being carried by her mother. And then she was in her bed, alone, with cool air on her face.
With morning came a clearer light. She pulled herself out of bed, waiting for the throb of the headache. And it came, but not with the viciousness she’d expected. So that was something. She peeled off the clothes she’d worn the day before, powdered her body, and pulled on a fresh gown and cloak. She could hear voices in the counting room below her. Yardem and Pyk and Isadau. She smiled as she made her way down the stairs. But when she reached the street, she turned right instead of left, moving through the streets alone among the crowd. Even with the blockade lifted, there were a thousand problems and threats and fears, and she would go and face them soon. The joy of relief was still in her, and she wasn’t quite ready to leave it behind. Not yet.
Maestro Asanpur’s café was as busy as she’d seen it in months. The broken windows were not replaced, but the last of the glass had been pulled from them and the frames had been made neat. The smell of coffee and fresh bread mixed with the shouts from the Grand Market. Cithrin bowed to the old Cinnae, and he bowed back.
“A very good day after all, then, yesterday,” Asanpur said.
“And from such inauspicious beginnings,” Cithrin replied.
“Let me make you some coffee, eh?”
“I would like nothing better,” Cithrin said, moving back toward her private room.
Asanpur’s voice held her back. “Do you know anything about this savior of ours? Have you met with him?”
“Nothing,” Cithrin said. “I’d guess whoever he is, he’s locked in private conference while the governor gnaws himself raw deciding whether to jail him as a pirate or welcome him as a hero.”
The voice that answered came from behind her. It was deep and masculine and carried the accents of Imperial Antea. “You’d have guessed wrong.”
He had risen from one of the smaller tables in the back. He looked to be younger than Marcus and older than herself. His beard was a deep nut brown and his face darkened by the sun. He stepped forward, and the café went silent. Even Asanpur forgot his coffee. “You’re Cithrin bel Sarcour, then?”
“I am,” she said. “And am I to understand you claim to be the genius who saved us from our enemies?”
“Not genius,” the man said. “I’ve been warning Lord Skestinin about those rudders for years. He thought I was being overdramatic. I only took the opportunity to prove my point. I’ve spent the last half year poking around Herez looking for a man named Callon Cane. It seems to me that you’re him too.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” she said, and the bearded man shook his head.
“I don’t believe that, Magistra. You’re the one person in this world with the balls to stand against Geder Palliako.”
Cithrin felt a pang of some emotion that surprised her. Sorrow, perhaps. Or regret. Or pride. “I am.”
“Well, I am the enemy of your enemy. My name is Barriath Kalliam, by right of blood Baron of Osterling Fells, and I’ve come to help you bleed that bastard white.”
Marcus
It was as if Porte Oliva had known they were coming, and what they brought. Flying low over the city, Marcus looked down into streets already made bright with celebratory cloth, squares already filled with musicians and dancing. Upturned faces flashed by him so quickly, he remembered them more than actually saw them. All were in phases of amazement, mouths open, hands pointing, eyes as wide as Southlings’. Inys skimmed above the Grand Market, his feet so low, Marcus expected to hear the canvas tenting rip. He swooped out over the salt quarter, past the seawall, out over the bay. Marcus had never seen so much traffic on water before, and all the sailors shouted as they passed overhead, and he waved down to them. Inys’s great wings chuffed like sailcloth as the dragon turned in a long, slow circle and passed back over the city. There was screaming in the streets now, though whether it was excitement or terror or some combination of the two wasn’t clear. They all sounded the same from where he was.
At the land side of the city, Inys backed, slowed, and touched ground. The huge black talons cut into the grass as Marcus and the players released themselves and stripped off the harnesses. Inys shook his head.
“They have taken down the perches,” he said, the restrained thunder of his voice heavy with disgust. “This little growth has no place for me.”
“In their defense,” Marcus said, “they weren’t exactly expecting the company. Wouldn’t be surprised if they invested in some amenities now there’s a reason for them.”