“Think they remember us, sir,” Yardem said.
“Seems they might,” Marcus said.
The plan had been simple. Send a message ahead to the palace requesting an audience with King Tracian and his master of coin relying on Marcus’s name to catch the king’s curiosity. It had been a good plan, Marcus thought as the guards marched him and Cithrin side by side up the flights of wooden stairs. The poisoned sword was taken, as were Yardem’s blades and the little knives Cithrin and Kit had carried. Four men walked in front, four between Cithrin and Marcus at the front and Kit and Yardem behind, and four brought up the rear. Not precisely an honor guard’s formation. They hadn’t bound anyone, though, so that was a fine thing.
“Do you remember,” he said, “back when you were coming to Carse the first time to ingratiate yourself to Komme Medean and kick Pyk out of your chair?”
“I do,” Cithrin said.
“I was going to make myself part of your guard. You wouldn’t allow it.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“I’m seeing how you drew that conclusion.”
“Fame is its own punishment,” Cithrin said. Even in the somewhat threatening circumstances, her voice was bright. Somewhere along the way, she had become hard to frighten.
The cliff rose beside them and the water fell away, the masts of the ships pointing up at them like the fingers of curious giants. When they reached the edge of the cliff and the iron stairs that led to the great yard, Marcus’s legs ached and his breath was heavy. Cithrin and the others seemed fine, though, so he didn’t complain or ask for a moment’s halt. The wide, open streets of the city around him were as familiar as a house lived in as a child and seen again as a man full grown. Now that he had seen a dragon, the city made more sense. He could imagine Inys making his way between the buildings, climbing to the ancient perches and looking out over the sea. It was strange, like the memory of a word heard once in some language he hadn’t known at the time but explicable now. His own history and the city’s both came clear before him.
I have lived my whole life in Inys’s ruins, he thought, and I never understood what I was seeing.
The king’s palace rose up level above level, a massive block of dragon’s jade and stone. Walking through the southern gate into the gardens was like seeing an old friend. Or an old enemy. Marcus felt the familiar tension in his back. His lips curled into an unkind version of a smile. Apple trees heavy with fruit made a carefully manicured orchard around a fountain of dragon’s jade. His family had died burning to determine who got to sit beside that water and eat those fruits. If anyone had asked him before now, he’d have said his anger had mellowed. He’d have been wrong. The central fact of his life was still that Alys and Merian were dead, and he would never forgive the world for it.
More guards were waiting for them, though these at least had light and nicely decorated armor. Their blades would kill just as quickly, but it was possible to pretend they were merely ornamental. They led the four of them down a long hall and through a carved archway. The room wasn’t made for meeting, though for someone who hadn’t spent time studying the architecture of the palace with an eye toward murder, that might not have been obvious. It was, after all, wide and comfortable. The rails and walkways above them on all sides might almost have been intended to open the room and give it the sense of being a covered garden. It was really a place for archers to stand so that, by aiming down, they wouldn’t hit the man across the way from them. There were divans of buff-colored silk and tapestries from Far Syramys. A servant poured them water and wine and gave them plates of nuts and fresh grapes, silver bowls of cool water to refresh themselves with. Somewhere above them, as hidden as the archers, musicians were playing softly: mandolin and sand drum and harp. As slaughter pits went, it was hard to improve on.
Cithrin didn’t see the room’s threat or its potential for violence. She took her seat, relaxing into it like she came here every day. Yardem paced as if simply stretching his legs. Only Kit let himself gawk at the beauty and splendor of the palace, standing in the room’s center and turning slowly to take it all in.
“I am impressed,” Kit said.
“You’re meant to be,” Cithrin said. “We’re all meant to be.”
“That it’s intended doesn’t take away from the effect,” the actor said. “I’ve played before kings before, one time and another, but I can’t say that I’ve been here. This was what you were hoping for, wasn’t it, Cithrin?”
She smiled. “I’d hoped for more respect and less fear, but this will do. As long as we can speak to the king and his master of coin, we’ll be fine.”
“You’re a woman of great faith,” Marcus said.
The voice came from the walkway above. “Captain Wester.”
King Tracian looked more like his mother, now that he’d grown to manhood. The fat cheeks had spread to a manly if still-rounded face. The darkness of his hair showed what Lady Tracian’s must have been before the grey of age crept in. His personal guard were behind him, but without weapons drawn. The king’s robe was a deep red velvet, embroidered with a pattern Marcus couldn’t make out.
“Majesty,” Marcus said. “Been some time. I heard about your mother’s passing. I’d have come for the burial, but I thought people might misinterpret it.”
“She’d have understood why you didn’t,” King Tracian said. “I have to say I’m surprised to see you here. Especially unannounced.”
Marcus spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “Flying before the storm. If I’d had a reliable way to send a message faster than I could arrive myself… Well, I might have.”
Tracian put his hands on the railing. His gaze was fixed on Marcus like he was a puzzle the king was trying to solve. “I’ve heard some fairly astounding tales about you over the years.”
“Most of them are probably exaggerations,” Marcus said. “You know how it is when people talk.”
“People were saying you woke a dragon and flew across the world on its back.”
“You see? Exaggeration. He wouldn’t have let any of us on his back.”
Tracian laughed, and then stopped and then laughed again. Marcus knew better than to bait the man, but he couldn’t seem to help it. The urge to be the man he’d been in these halls, in this palace, was almost too powerful to overcome. He’d killed a king once, and the new king would have been a fool to forget it.
“What brings you?” King Tracian asked, his voice calm and careful.
“Majesty,” Cithrin said, bowing deeply. “Captain Wester is with me. He’s led my guard since I founded my branch of the bank.”
“Yes, Magistra bel Sarcour. I’d heard that too,” King Tracian said. “I almost thought the dragon riding more plausible than that General Wester had fallen to guard duty.”
“It has its compensations,” Marcus said. “But she’s telling you true. I wasn’t coming here at all. I’d thought we were going to Stollbourne until she told me to change course. What happened before, happened. Right now, the job’s less fighting old battles than avoiding fresh ones.”
“I’ve heard about the fall of Porte Oliva,” the king said. “You have my sympathy, of course. But I don’t know how I can help you.”
“I was thinking that I might be able to help you, Your Majesty,” Cithrin said.
“And how would you do that?” he asked.
“I was thinking of giving you a great deal of money.”
Cithrin
Everything had a cost. Cithrin knew that the way she knew her own body. It was simply the way the world was built. Even an apple given freely had to be carried or eaten or thrown away at the risk of offending the giver. A word kindly given cost the time it took to respond and to think afterward whether it had been truly meant. Having Marcus Wester at her side was a tremendous and likely critical advantage. It had, as she’d hoped, brought her before the king so quickly that Komme Medean and the holding company weren’t even aware as yet that she was in the city. That King Tracian’s interest and curiosity were built on a bedrock of fear was part of the price of it. It meant having the first part of the conversation in a pit where the king and his guards posed a much greater physical threat to them than they could to him. That was easy enough to ignore. Marcus’s cold smile and the way he spoke even the most innocuous words could be a prelude to violence and meant that his part of the work was done, and he needed to be put aside as quickly and gently as she could manage.