The Dragon’s Path (39 page)

Despite what he’d done, he was a hero.
Because
of what he’d done. It was more than relief; it was reprieve, forgiveness, and absolution. He lifted his arms, drinking in the adulation like a starving man. If it was a dream, he’d rather die than wake from it.

I
t was a difficult decision,” Geder said, leaning across the table and talking loud. “To raze a city like that is a terrible thing. I didn’t choose that path lightly.”

“Absolutely not,” the second son of the Baron of Nurring said, hardly slurring his words at all. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Where’s the valor in doing the easy thing? There isn’t any. But to face the dilemma. Take action.”

“Definitive action,” Geder said.

“Exactly,” the boy replied. “Definitive action.”

The revel grounds connected to Dawson Kalliam’s mansion. It wasn’t as grand as the ballrooms and gardens on an actual holding, but it was near. And to have so much room inside the walls of the Undying City said more than three times the space in the countryside. Candles glowed up and down the high-domed walls, and blown glass lanterns hung from threads too thin to see in the dusk. Wall-wide doors opened to fresh gardens that still smelled of turned earth and early flowers. The feast and dance had run their course. Half a dozen highborn men had taken to the dais to proclaim the virtues of Geder’s actions in the Free Cities.

There had been none of the weakness, timidity, and
corruption that had poisoned the generals of Antea for too long now, they said. Geder Palliako had shown his mettle not only to the Free Cities, not only to the world. He had shown it to his own countrymen. Through his actions, he had reminded them all what purity could accomplish. Even the king had sent a messenger with a written notice recognizing Geder’s return to Camnipol.

The applause had been intoxicating. The respect and admiration of men who hadn’t so much as nodded to him in any of his times at court. Then the dance. Geder generally avoided that particular court pastime, but Dawson Kalliam’s wife Clara had insisted that that he accompany her around the garden yard at least once, and by the time he’d made the circuit, he felt almost surefooted. He’d made another few rounds with a few younger, unattached women before his thighs and ankles began to protest sharply enough to stop him. Jorey had brought his leather cloak, and as the day cooled toward night and the wine and beer flowed a bit more freely, Geder was glad of it.

“The mark of a real leader,” Geder said, and then lost the thread. “The mark of a leader…”

“I hope you’ll excuse me,” his father said. “Geder, my boy?”

Geder rose to his feet and his drinking companion nodded his respect and turned away, his steps generally steady.

“It’s getting late for an old man,” Lerer Palliako said, “but I couldn’t go without seeing you. You have exceeded anything I could have hoped. I haven’t seen people talking about our family in terms like this since… Well, ever, I suppose.”

“Let me go with you,” Geder said.

“No no no. It’s your night. Enjoy it.”

“I’d enjoy talking with you,” Geder said, and his father’s eyes softened.

“Well, then.”

Together, Geder and his father found Lady Kalliam and offered their profound thanks. Somehow the conversation turned until they were accepting her kind words, and they left with the feeling that the night had been an intimate affair with old friends they’d rarely seen. She insisted that they take the litter that had carried Geder through the streets earlier. Walking through the darkened streets wasn’t safe, and even if it had been, it wouldn’t do. Jorey appeared as they were about to take their last leave and offered Geder his hand. Geder almost wept, taking it.

As the Tralgu slaves hauled them through the night-dark streets, Geder looked at the stars scattered across the sky. Away from the gleeful crowd, the elation of relief cooled a degree. He was surprised to find that some part of the dread was still there, not sharp anymore, not strong, but present. Not even fear, but the as yet unbroken habit of fear.

His father cleared his throat.

“You’re on the rise, my boy. You’re very much on the rise.”

“I don’t know about that,” Geder said.

“Oh, no. No, I heard those men tonight. You’ve caught the court at a delicate time. You’re in very real danger of becoming a symbol of something.” His father’s intonation was merry, but there was something in the way he held his shoulders that made Geder think of a man bracing for a blow.

“I’m not a court pigeon,” Geder said. “I’ll be pleased to come home and work through some of the books that I found down there. You’d like some of them. I’ve started a
translation of an essay about the last dragons that claims to date from only a few hundred years after Morade fell. You’d like it.”

“I’m sure I would,” Lerer said.

The Tralgu in the lead grunted expressively and the litter spun elegantly around a tight turn, dipping just a degree to counterbalance the shift.

“I saw Sir Klin didn’t attend tonight,” Lerer said.

“I wouldn’t have expected him,” Geder said. For a moment, he was on a frozen mill pond again, discovering the fortune that would have saved Klin’s protectorate. “I imagine he’s feeling a bit chagrined after all. Vanai was his, and he got called back on a leash. It must embarrass him, seeing me greeted with all this.”

“It must. Indeed it must. Lord Ternigan didn’t come either.”

“He may have been called for elsewhere,” Geder said.

“That’s it. I’m sure that’s it.”

In the dark streets, a dog yapped and complained. The breeze that felt cool in the crowded ballrooms and gardens was chill now.

“Court events usually don’t have everyone appear,” Geder said. “I wasn’t even expecting this much.”

“Of course not. And it was quite a thing, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

They lapsed into silence. Geder’s back ached. Between riding and dancing, he expected to feel half crippled in the morning.

“Geder?”

Geder grunted.

“Be careful with these men. They aren’t always what they seem. Even when they take your side, it’s best to spare an eye for them.”

“I will,” Geder said.

“And don’t forget who you are. Whoever they want you to be, don’t forget who you really are.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” Lerer Palliako said. He was hardly more than a shadow against a shadow, except that the starlight caught his eyes. “That’s my good boy.”

M
arcus leaned low, arms to his sides. The pommel of the blackwood sword in his hand was slick with sweat. The Firstblood boy shifting on the far side of the pit wore a pair of fighter’s trousers and a serious expression. Marcus waited. The boy licked his lips and hefted his sword.

“No hurry,” Marcus said.

The air of the gymnasium was hot, close, and damp. The grunts and shouts of the other fighters struggled over the rush of water in the pipes that fed baths. At least a dozen men stood around the edges of the pit. Most were Kurtadam or Firstblood, though a pair of Timzinae held themselves a little apart. And Yardem Hane, panting and sweat-soaked. No Cinnae had come.

Marcus saw the boy’s weight shift, committing to the attack. The boy held his sword to the side, eastern-style, so he had some training. Marcus blocked, chalk dust rising from the blackwood blade, and moved to the boy’s left. The boy turned, and Marcus brought his sword down overhand. The boy blocked so aggressively that both swords bounced back. Marcus shifted the blade to his left hand and struck again, low this time, watching the boy’s stance.

Avoiding both of Marcus’s blows emboldened him. The boy took a firmer grip, feinted clumsily to the right, and
darted left. Marcus blocked the attack casually, pulling his blade through the thick air to slap hard across the boy’s chest. Marcus watched his opponent stumble back. The chalked practice sword left a line from the boy’s lowest rib up to his collarbone.

“Who’s next?” he called.

“That’s the last, sir,” Yardem said.

“Thank you, Captain Wester, sir,” the boy said. The skin where Marcus had struck was red and rising. He felt a passing chagrin. He hadn’t meant to hurt him.

“Thank you, son. You did well,” Marcus said, and the boy grinned.

Marcus put his hands on the side of the pit and pulled himself up. He ached from shoulder to foot, and the pain felt good. Yardem tossed him a wad of the threadbare cloth, and Marcus wiped the sweat off his face and neck. This was the third collection of men they’d tried as new additions to the company. As with the others, it had been a mixed lot. Some had come because they were desperate and had no skills apart from a willingness to cause pain. Others because, by doing it, they could say they’d been in the pit against Marcus Wester. And a few—no more than a handful—because it was the work they knew and they happened to be at loose ends when Marcus had put out his call.

One of the latter was a stout Kurtadam with a gray-gold pelt and a Cabral acent. Marcus met Yardem’s gaze and pointed his chin toward the candidate. Yardem nodded once.

“You,” Marcus said. “What was your name again, friend?”

“Ahariel,” the Kurtadam said. “Ahariel Akkabrian.”

“You know how to fight. What put you in Porte Oliva?”

“Took contract with a company out of Narinisle. Mostly garrison work, but the commander started bunking with the footmen. Got to be about gossip and hurt feelings, I had
to get out. I was thinking of the Free Cities. Figure they’ll be jumpy for years with what happened to Vanai and all. But I heard you were looking.”

“It won’t be garrison work,” Marcus said.

The Kurtadam shrugged.

“I figured you have your pick of work. Wodford and Gradis and all. If it was good enough to hold you, it’d be enough for a sword-and-bow like me.”

“You’re an optimist,” Marcus said. “But we’d be pleased to have you if the terms suffice.”

“Wouldn’t waste your time if they didn’t,” Ahariel said.

“Report in the morning, then. We’ll put you on the duty roster.”

Ahariel saluted, turned, and walked away.

“I like him,” Marcus said. “Doesn’t talk much.”

“Fit right in, sir,” Yardem said.

“Feels good, having a real company again.”

“Does.”

Marcus dropped the scrap of cloth onto the edge of the pit.

“Is it time?” he asked.

“We should go soon,” Yardem said.

The early summer streets of Porte Oliva were hot and crowded. Beggars haunted the corners, and the press of bodies in the streets seemed to add as much heat as the wide, golden coastal sun. The air smelled of the ocean, of honey and hot oil and cumin. The clothes also changed. No jackets, no cloaks. Cinnae men and women strode through the street in diaphanous robes that made their thin bodies seem to shift and bend like shadows or spirits. The Kurtadam shaved themselves until there was hardly enough fur to tie beads onto and wore loincloths and halters barely sufficient to protect the most basic modesty. It was the Firstblood,
though, that kept Marcus’s attention. Men and women split out of their winter cocoons into bright colors, green and yellow and pink. Tunics were cut down the sides to let air and covert glances skid across bare skin. Every day had the feeling of festival about it.

Marcus didn’t like it.

It reminded him too much of a time when he’d been young and unable to distinguish lust from affection, and memories of that time always led to the times that came after. Meeting a blue-eyed girl named Alys, wooing her with brave tales and pale flowers. The nights of longing, and then one moonlit night at the end of springtime, a shared apple, a kiss beside a waterfall, and the end of longing. His perfect woman. In a just world, she’d be with him still.

Meriam would have been old enough now to suffer the same stirrings and confusions of the flesh, and he would have been as powerless to force wisdom upon her as his father had been with him. But no. By now she’d have been old enough to have married young and imprudently. Another season, and Marcus might have been tickling a grandson under the chin. Being reminded of all those unlived moments was what he disliked about the city. But it was also what he disliked about the world. So long as there was work that needed doing, he could put it all aside.

The question of where to put the permanent home of the new bank had been easily solved when Cithrin spoke to the daughter of the gambler whose stall they slept above. She’d been hoping to talk her father into leaving the trade for years, and had very nearly succeeded. The lower floor was wide enough to support a small barracks, and the basement had an iron strongbox set in stone and countersunk deep into the earth. And so now, where the gambler’s stall had once been, the Medean bank of Porte Oliva now lived in
modest elegance. The day that the old gambler had signed the contracts, Cithrin announced the change by having the walls repainted in the brightest white she could find. Where the caller had stood, chanting his litany of wagers and odds, a wide tin pot filled with black soil had the thin green stalks and broad sloping leaves of half a dozen tulips still only threatening to bloom.

“Straight to her?” Yardem asked, gesturing at the private stair that led to the rooms that were now exclusively Cithrin’s. Marcus shook his head.