“Yes, sir. Turns out one of Palliako’s exiles is an experienced sailor. He took over a ship, organized a small pirate fleet, and has been trying to make contact with the magistra. Now he’s managed, the blockade’s broken here, and we’re in conversation about how to address Porte Silena and Sara-sur-Mar. Got us the commander of the Antean fleet in custody as well. Lord Skestinin. Governor has him in a private cell under heavy guard.”
“Well, that’s got to be a good thing.”
“I think so, sir.”
Marcus looked over at Cithrin and the players. Sandr and Hornet were pulling her toward Inys as if the dragon were a personal friend they couldn’t wait to introduce. Marcus started walking toward the dragon too, Yardem falling in step behind him.
“Did the people associate Cithrin with the blockade?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, sir. We were expecting the queen to take her in custody. Trade her for peace.”
Marcus nodded. That’s what the governor had been talking about, then. Made sense. “Well, that’ll be harder today than it was yesterday.”
“It’s good to have allies, sir.”
“The general populace?”
“Vandalism. Some action against the bank. One conspiracy to assassinate her.”
“How’d that last one go?”
“Took care of it without having to bother her.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Didn’t see reason to. She seemed busy.”
“Good man.”
“And you, sir?”
“Found a dragon.”
“And the day you come back and take over the company?”
“That’s today.”
Yardem’s wide, canine smile and low chuckle were his only reply.
As they approached, the dragon reared up, spread his wings, and folded them again. The tips flowed back behind the massive body like the drape of a formal dress. Without planning it, the people stood in a rough semicircle before Inys, like petitioners before a great king. Even Pyk Usterhall’s head was bowed, and Marcus hadn’t been entirely sure her neck bent that way. Inys looked at each of them in turn. Even having traveled as far as he had with the beast, even keeping his unease with the dragon in mind, Marcus felt a certain awe. The sense of being in the presence of something greater than the world; it was almost love. Certainly loyalty. The feeling of the sheepdog for the shepherd. It made his neck itch.
“You then,” Inys said, considering Cithrin. “You are Cithrin. The one who leads the fight against the tainted ones?”
“I am,” Cithrin said.
“This is as it should be,” Inys said. “I am Inys. I have let the world die, to my shame. Your battle is the first step in my redemption. I will aid you. I know what the tainted are, and how they are to be defeated. I will tell you what I know, and together we will burn my brother’s madness from this unending grave.”
Cithrin looked up at the dragon’s head, her expression solemn.
“Good,” she said.
Being back in Porte Oliva was like waking from a long, uncomfortable dream. In the barracks, there were more familiar faces than he’d expected. Even with Pyk’s punishing austerity and a season in Suddapal, Yardem had managed to keep most of the company together. He hadn’t forgotten the puppeteers that set up it seemed at every fourth corner, performing for charity from the crowd or support from some local with a political agenda, but he hadn’t precisely remembered them either. The streets were familiar, the smells of salt and coffee. The dogs that chased each other through traffic, startling horses and dodging between cart wheels with suicidal abandon. It was all familiar, except that it also wasn’t.
Some of the changes were overt. The governor pardoned all the guests of the magistrate’s justice and had a dragon-sized perch constructed in the square between his palace and the cathedral before nightfall. Magistra Isadau was there now too. But more than that, he remembered Porte Oliva as a place he had gnawed himself raw to leave. Before he had left, he’d been the guard captain of one of the most important companies in the city. In the kingdom, for that. He’d had the prospect of a lifetime’s easy work and a comfortable retirement. Instead he’d tracked across three corners of the world. He’d been driven half mad by the jungles of Lyoneia, snuck into a temple filled with spider priests to kill a dark goddess, come near to freezing in a Hallskari ice storm, been whipped by incensed Haaverkin, strapped a venomous sword to his back, and woken the last dragon in the world. Whatever about Porte Oliva had oppressed him before was gone now. The taproom where he’d met a beautiful woman with whom he’d humiliated himself, the little room in the salt quarter where he and Yardem and Cithrin had been attacked, the places where—with the help of Master Kit and the players—they had forged the founding documents of the branch. All of it was comforting and welcoming and peaceful. He couldn’t imagine now why he’d felt so chapped by it all before.
“It’s because his soul is a circle,” Yardem said.
“Oh fuck’s sake, this again?” Marcus said, but with laughter in his voice.
“How’s that?” Barriath Kalliam asked. He was younger than Marcus by a decade and a half. Maybe more. He wore his youth well, though, and he’d spent enough time at sea to have outgrown the boyish romance of violence. Sitting in the taproom nearest the company barracks, he might almost have been one of them. Marcus could imagine liking him.
“It’s his nature that when he is at his lowest, he will inevitably rise. And also when he reaches the highest ground of his life, he’ll fall.” The Tralgu traced a circle in the air, as if showing something real. “My work is to… um…” Yardem shook his head, setting his earrings clattering. He was stupendously drunk. They all were.
“His job is to see to it that my inevitable fall doesn’t wind up with me landing on anyone,” Marcus said.
“More or less,” Yardem agreed.
“I don’t hold much with souls,” Barriath said.
“Wise man,” Marcus said and lifted his mug toward the keeper. She nodded and held up a finger. She’d seen him. She’d be there. That was good enough. “This Palliako. You’ve actually met him, then?”
“More than met him. Watched him slaughter my father.”
“Ah. Sorry. Didn’t know,” Marcus said, though through the haze of alcohol, he suspected he had known that. At least in the abstract. “That’s the sort of thing that will drive a man. Revenge. Only, between us? It’s not as sweet as you think. It doesn’t fix much.”
“I’m willing to try it all the same.”
“Wouldn’t expect less,” Marcus said. “What do you make of him?”
“He’s… petty. Mostly that. He’s a little, mean, petty man who found a gem and thinks it means God loves him.”
“The gem being your empire?” Yardem asked.
Barriath stroked his beard, scowling. “Apparently so.”
“He was an idiot to put you to exile,” Marcus said. “If you’ve hurt a man that deep, better you finish him off. Otherwise, he’ll be around forever, waiting for the chance to come even.”
“My brothers are leading his army,” Barriath said. “The Lord Marshal? My fucking baby brother. Working for Palliako. Can you believe that?”
“No,” Marcus said. “Kill a man’s father and then hand him your army? I can’t imagine ever doing anything like that.”
“Falling on a sword would seem faster,” Yardem agreed. His eyelids were at half-mast. His smile wide and loose.
“And yet they’ve got their blades and arrows pointing toward here and not back at Camnipol,” Barriath said. “I don’t know how he manages it. After all he’s done, I don’t know how he convinces them to keep his side.”
“I do,” Marcus said. “I’ll have Kit show you when he gets back. Only knowing won’t help us when the army comes.”
The keep came by, sweeping up Marcus’s mug and putting a fresh one down before him. He hadn’t actually had that much to drink, and he was already feeling a little swimmy. Either he’d been on the road entirely too long or carrying the poisoned sword against his back during the long flight south had affected him more than he’d realized.