The cliffs grew from a thick line to a ragged curve. The port at the base was still invisible, but Carse itself would be in view soon. Gulls chased the ship and the sailors cursed at them. Low, pale clouds floated and shifted against the late summer blue. Marcus watched for the city with his shoulders tensed and waited for the blow.
Yardem came up from belowdecks, his nose lifted to the wind and his ears canted forward. He nodded to the ship’s mate as he passed, but didn’t speak until he came close to Marcus.
“Been some time since we were here last,” Yardem said.
“Has. I keep having to remind myself it’s not Lady Tracian we’ll be speaking with. Her boy wasn’t much more than a thumb and an overwhelming sense of entitlement last time I saw him.”
“He was a boy,” Yardem said.
“Well, he’s a king now.”
“Is,” Yardem said. “Because of you.”
“Maybe he’ll be grateful.”
“Open to a pleasant surprise. Regret that you didn’t put the crown on your own head?”
“Are you joking?”
“A bit, yes.”
“There was that baker. You remember the one? With the apple tarts shaped like stars? What was her name?”
“Steyen,” Yardem said with a wide, canine smile.
“That’s right. Steyen. I wonder if she’s still about.”
“Suppose we’ll find out,” Yardem said.
“Yep.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“They may try to kill us,” Yardem said. “Slaughtering the old king can leave the new king nervous.”
“That had occurred to me too. But we have Cithrin and Kit. And if he doesn’t, though, the apple tarts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s also entirely possible that we’re old news. Everything we did was a long way from here, and the world does move on.”
“You think they just won’t recall us?”
“I can hope.”
The docks were crowded with ships of a dozen different designs. Marcus recognized banners and shipping marks from as far as Kort and Suddapal. Carts and dockhands crawled across the wooden piers like ants. The wind was coming in gusts now, complicating their landing. Marcus strapped the blasted sword on his back again. The rash where the scabbard rested against his shoulder hadn’t quite healed since he’d stowed the damned thing after fleeing Porte Oliva. The poison that it carried made his joints ache a little. Or maybe he was just getting old.
Kit and Yardem stood with him, trying to stay clear of the sailors. Kit squinted up at the wooden stairs that climbed up the vast cliff face. They’d moved since the last time Marcus had seen them. In his memory, he could still follow the turns and switchbacks and landings of the old stairs, but the cliff face was soft, and nothing that hung from it lasted for long.
“You’ve been to Carse before?” Yardem asked.
“Yes,” Kit said. “Many times. In my experience, sex farces and tragedies of character play well here. Religious subjects and tragedies of politics less so. They seem busier than I recall them being.”
“It’s the war,” Marcus said. “You can usually see a little shifting of the trade ships when there’s a good, rolling war on. It isn’t usually this much, though.”
“I think there isn’t usually a war like this one,” Kit said. “It seems no place has gone entirely untouched by it. Even those where Antean blades haven’t gone have changed.”
“That’s true,” Marcus said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it affected the blue-water trade too. Even Far Syramys will smell the wind off this fire. Truth is the world hasn’t seen a war like this one since the last time our new friend was in the skies.”
“Same one,” Yardem said.
“Sorry?” Marcus said.
“It’s not like the fall of the Dragon Empire,” Yardem said. “It is the fall of the Dragon Empire.”
“Suppose that’s true,” Marcus said.
“I don’t know that I find that reassuring,” Kit said.
Yardem flicked a jingling ear. “Didn’t mean it to be.”
A guide boat came alongside, a Cinnae man in the bows with a dun-colored speaking trumpet. The ship’s mate shouted down to him, and for what seemed the better part of an hour, they negotiated back and forth, until the mate finally shouted a string of curses, tossed away his speaking horn, and called for the sails to be raised again and the course set. The deck lurched and creaked as the low sails caught the breeze and the ship turned for an empty slip. The guide boat moved ahead, shouting and hectoring both the crew and the other boats that threatened to cross their path. They were just starting to tie up at the dock when Cithrin emerged from below. The blue dress draped in Elassean style as if she wanted to remind the king of all the cities and nations that had fallen in the past few seasons. She’d touched her lips and cheeks with red, but only just. She moved across the deck with sure steps. She was beautiful, but not the way a girl searching for a boy might be. It was the beauty of a well-made knife. From the style of her hair to the tilt of her shoulders, everything about her spoke of competence. He tried to see the thin-limbed, frightened, overwhelmed girl he’d met on the last caravan from Vanai. He couldn’t find her. She wasn’t so many years older than she had been, and also she was. A small sorrow plucked at him that he hadn’t been able to make the world an easier place for her.
“Where do we stand?” she asked smartly.
“Customs man should be aboard within the hour,” the ship’s mate said. “Once he’s cleared us, we’re sitting tight until the others come.”
“Thank you,” she said, turning to Marcus and Kit and Yardem. “This should be an interesting day.”
“Could put it that way,” Marcus said.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said, her voice solid and certain. Like she was trying to convince herself. “It is all going to be fine.”
In fact it was well over an hour before the customs magistrate walked the gangplank over and scowled along the deck. He was a Firstblood man with a bald pate, a ledger in his hand, and an air of grievance that surrounded him like a smell.
“Who’s responsible for the fees, then?”
“I’m patron,” Cithrin said.
“Mm,” the magistrate said. “All right. And what are you carrying?”
“In this ship, or the full company?”
“You’ve a full company?”
“I do. We’re the first ship of twenty.”
The magistrate laughed dismissively. “Let’s have the tally for both, then. God alone knows where you think to put twenty ships, though. It isn’t your private dock, miss. There are rules about these things.”
“Of course,” she said. “This is ship is carrying only passengers. I am Cithrin bel Sarcour, voice of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva. These are my guards and counselor.”
“Names?”
“Kitap rol Keshmet,” Kit said. “Sometimes called Master Kit.”
“I can manage Keshesti names, thank you,” the magistrate said. “You. Tralgu. Spit it out. I have other business to finish today.”
“Yardem Hane.”
The magistrate snorted. “Nice try. What’s your real name.”
“Yardem Hane.”
“Really,” the magistrate said. “And then I suppose you’ll try to tell me that this leathery old fuck is supposed to be…”
Marcus lifted his hand in a short wave. The magistrate’s face went grey as ash. His ledger fell from numb fingers, the pages splaying out on the deck.