The dragon growled and turned its head toward the city. A group of queensmen in green and gold were making their way across the meadow, pikes at the ready in a formation that could have been ceremonial or defensive, depending on the need. In the center of the formation, the governor lurked in bright steel armor.
“Well, God smiled,” Marcus said. “You all wait here. I’ll go tell the governor which way the wind’s blowing.”
“I will have food and drink,” Inys said. “And they will build me a true perch.”
“I’ll let them know that,” Marcus said.
The flying harness left his legs weak and numb, but Marcus made his way across the field toward the advancing force all the same. The pins-and-needles pain would come soon, and he’d have to stand in place until it passed. And he wasn’t yet certain he wanted Inys to hear everything that was said.
“Hold!” the guard captain called as Marcus drew near. Marcus raised a hand in greeting as if they were acquaintances meeting on the road. “Who are you, and what is your business with the city?”
“Marcus Wester and I live here, or I used to. Been away for a time on, you know—” He pointed back toward the dragon. Inys, freed of the harnesses, was stretching out on the greensward, scratching his back against the earth like a puppy the size of a house. “Work.”
“Captain Wester?” The governor’s voice trembled. “Is that really you?”
“Governor,” Marcus said.
“Are you well?”
“Bit tired. Long road. Speaking as a metaphor. Wasn’t as much actual road in it as usual.”
The governor came to the front of the group of soldiers. Marcus had never thought much of the man, and the time away from Porte Oliva hadn’t improved him. His thinning hair was slicked back in a younger man’s style, and he wore more glittering rings, if that was possible. Marcus could take some solace in the fear-wide eyes and trembling lips.
“The… the dragon,” the governor said, gesturing over Marcus’s shoulder. Marcus shifted, and a bright flare of pain rose up through both legs as the feeling returned.
“Him. Yes,” he said. “Come to consult with the magistra.”
“It’s… the bel Sarcour woman? It’s here for her?”
“I imagine there’ll be some other people he might want to talk to, but Inys has been out of the world for long enough, he’s still running to catch up on the history. Wouldn’t want to annoy him too much.”
“She’s free, she’s perfectly free,” the governor said. “We haven’t detained her at all.”
Marcus frowned. “All… right.”
“She has always been one of the great citizens of Porte Oliva. We celebrate and support her. We always have.”
“Sure she’ll be pleased to know that.”
They stood for a moment in silence. Marcus watched the governor’s face as he went from distress to relief to a near-childlike shyness. “Do you… might I be introduced? To the dragon?”
“Probably best for the magistra to make those introductions,” Marcus said. “I’m just captain of the guard. Wouldn’t want to presume.”
“No. No no no. Of course. That’s fine. When the magistra sees fit, then.”
“But if you could send word to her?”
The governor turned on his guards, lifting a glittering finger. “You heard Captain Wester. Send a runner to Magistra bel Sacrour. Now!”
The queensmen looked at one another for a moment, then one of them turned and started trotting back toward the city.
“Also, if you have any spare cattle,” Marcus said, pointing back at Inys. The dragon had settled back on its haunches like a huge cat and was watching Sandr, Smit, and Charlit Soon sing and caper before it while Master Kit and Cary stood off a way, in council. “The rest of us could use a bit to eat too. Some bread, maybe. We’ve been eating meat and not much else since Antea.”
“I will have a feast brought to you.”
“And a perch. Inys was saying he’d want someplace in the city with a perch.”
The governor’s eyes lit up. “Of course. Of course. Men! To me!”
Marcus watched the queensmen and the governor retreat. Porte Oliva itself seemed to be watching from across the green like an uncertain boy at a dance. The great defensive wall of the city was barely visible, choked out by the dyers’ yards and breweries and houses that had spilled out beyond it. Peacetime always meant people trading safety for space, and Porte Oliva had seen a long peace up to now. When the war came to the city, the people who’d made that exchange were going to regret it. Marcus shook his leg, and it only hurt a little. He turned back to where the dragon and the players sat in the sun and waited.
The group that came out was small, and he knew them by how they walked before they were close enough to see their faces. Cithrin in a deep blue blouse and skirt cut in the style of Elassae. Yardem in sparring leathers and rings in his ears. Magistra Isadau in a pale blouse that set off the darkness of her scales. Pyk Usterhall in a plain brown robe, arms swinging belligerently at her sides. Cinnae, Timzinae, Tralgu, and Yemmu. With him there as a Firstblood, they had almost half the races of humanity, and one of the dragons who’d made them. Marcus levered himself back to his feet. The players followed behind him. Inys watched with a detached interest, as if this were just another performance put on for his benefit.
Cithrin looked older than she had in Suddapal. Her face was fuller, and while her Cinnae blood would never let her skin fall to a Firstblood brown, she was a little darker in the cheeks and around the eyes. Marcus felt a stab of sorrow he hadn’t expected. When she’d gone to Carse, some lifetime ago, she’d been a girl playing at being a woman. He’d gone to Lyoneia to find the poisoned sword and the wild mountains beyond the Keshet to kill a goddess who couldn’t be killed. He’d been to the cold wastes of Hallskar and flown on a dragon’s foot halfway across the world. He’d seen her for a few short weeks in Elassae. It wasn’t enough. She had only grown a fraction older, and yet she seemed more changed than he was. He wished he had been there to see it happen.
“Captain,” she said, holding out her hands to him. The formality of the word was hard. Magistra floated at the back of his mouth.
“Cithrin,” he said, taking her hands. “Sorry I’ve been gone. I was… anyway. I think we found what Palliako’s men were searching for. And… ah…”
There were tears in her eyes. And then in his as well. “I knew you’d come back.”
“I wanted to,” he said around the lump in his throat. “I’m glad I could.”
And then she was in his arms and he was in hers. A fear he had hardly known he carried uncoiled a little. She was all right. She was safe. The world hadn’t broken her while he was gone, or if it had, not badly. And then the others were around them too, Cary and Kit and Smit and Hornet and Yardem’s wide strong arms around them all. Marcus stood there until he felt it was time to let go again, then extricated himself from the affectionate pile while the players peppered Cithrin with questions and demands and stories. The two other bank women watched, Isadau with an air of indulgence, Pyk with a scowl. Inys, bored, looked away toward the clouds. Marcus stepped away, nodding to Yardem.
“What’s our situation?” Marcus asked.
Yardem flicked his ear thoughtfully. “Complicated, sir. The Lord Regent was infatuated with Cithrin, and when she didn’t return the feeling he took it poorly. Sent his ships to block the harbors. Likely has his army on the way.”
“Huh,” Marcus said. “You ever get the sense that man just wasn’t spanked enough as a child?”
“I see it more as being rewarded for all the wrong things, sir, but I’ve never raised a boy.”
“And you have raised a girl?”
“Younger sister, sir.”
“Yardem, you are a man of endless surprises.”