Master Kit came up the stairs, a double armful of wrapped books before him. Then Sandr and Hornet with the last of the boxes. With everything from the cart, there wasn’t much room left for them all. Sandr was trapped standing beside her. When he saw her looking at him, he blushed and nodded the bird-fast twitch he might use to greet someone in the street.
“I believe this is the last of it,” Master Kit said as Yardem lifted the books from him.
“Thank you for this,” Cithrin said. “All of you.”
“It’s the least we could,” Smit said. “We’re only sorry it happened this way.”
“Yes, well,” Cithrin said. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Why don’t the rest of you go on,” Master Kit said. “I’ll try to catch up in a bit.”
The actors nodded and left. Cithrin heard their voices through the window as their cart pulled away. Captain Wester stalked around the room as if his restlessness and impatience would make the floorboards quieter and more certain. Yardem stretched out on the cot nestled between piles of boxes and closed his eyes, resting before the night came. Master Kit rose and held a hand out to her.
“Cithrin,” he said, “I was hoping we might walk together.”
She looked from the old actor’s hand to Captain Wester and back.
“Where?” she said.
“I didn’t have anyplace particularly in mind,” Master Kit said. “I thought the walking might be enough.”
“All right,” Cithrin said, and let him help her to her feet.
Outside, the street traffic shifted like water; broad and slow in the wide square to the east, faster in the narrow channel of the street. A Cinnae man stood outside the gambler’s stall, calling to the men and women walking past. Great fortune could be theirs. Luck favored the brave. They could soften the loss of business by wagering against themselves. Odds offered on any fair wager. He sounded bored.
Horse-drawn carts labored through the press, and a team of Timzinae walked behind them with flat-bladed shovels, picking up their droppings. Half a dozen children screamed and chased each other, splashing through puddles of mud and grime and worse. A laundry cart rattled by, pulled by a Firstblood girl no older than Cithrin, but with lines of hardship already forming in the angles of her mouth. Master Kit strode forth and Cithrin let him lead, unsure whether she was walking behind him or at his side.
The street opened into a square Cithrin hadn’t seen before. A huge church loomed to the east. Voices raised in song wove through the chill air, praising God and working through harmonic puzzles as if the two pursuits were one. Master Kit paused when she did, listening with her. The smile on his face softened into something touched with sorrow.
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” he said.
“What is?” Cithrin asked.
He leaned against a stone wall and gestured out. The square, the song, the sky above them.
“I suppose I meant the world. For all the tragedy and pain, I do, at least, find it beautiful.”
Cithrin felt her lips press tight. She wanted to apologize for what had happened to Opal, but that would only put Master Kit in a position where he had to apologize again,
and she didn’t want to do that. Words and thoughts banged against each other, none of them quite right for the moment.
“What will you do now?” she said.
Kit took a deep breath and let it out slowly before turning away from the song.
“I expect we’ll stay here for the time being. I don’t think Cary’s quite ready to take on the full burden of Opal’s roles, but by the end of the summer, with some rehearsal and serious work, I expect she will be. Between the armies of Vanai and now Opal, the company’s a bit thinner than I like. I hope we’ll be able to recruit a few good people. I’ve found port cities often collect itinerant actors.”
Cithrin nodded. Kit waited for her to speak, and when she didn’t, went on.
“Besides which, I find myself rather fascinated by your Captain Wester.”
“He’s not
my
Captain Wester,” Cithrin said. “He’s made it perfectly clear that he’s his own Captain Wester.”
“Has he, then? I stand corrected,” Master Kit said. The church song swelled, what could have been a hundred voices rising and falling, throbbing against each other until it seemed like some other voice threatened to speak through them. God whispering. It seemed to pull Master Kit’s attention, but when he spoke he hadn’t lost the conversation’s thread. “I believe the dragons left a legacy in this world that is… destructive. Corrosive by nature, and doomed to cause pain. Unchecked, it will eat the world. Wester is one of the few people I’ve met who I thought might stand against it.”
“Because he’s so stubborn?” Cithrin asked, trying to make it a joke.
“Yes, because of that,” Master Kit said. “And, I suppose, the shape of his soul.”
“He was a general in Northcoast a long time ago,” Cithrin said. “Something happened to his wife, I think.”
“He led Prince Springmere’s army in the succession. There were battles against the armies of Lady Tracian that should have been lost, but Captain Wester won them.”
“Wodford and Gradis,” Cithrin said. “But people also talk about… Ellis?”
“Yes. The fields of Ellis. They say it was the worst battle in the war, that no one wanted it and no one could back down. The story is he was so important that the prince grew afraid that another of the pretenders might seduce his loyalty. Convince him to change sides. Springmere had his family killed and his rival implicated. The captain’s wife and daughter died in front of him, and badly even as these things go.”
“Oh,” Cithrin said. “What happened to Springmere? I know he lost the succession, but…”
“Our friend Marcus found out what had really happened, took his revenge, and then dropped out of history. I think most people assumed he died. In my experience, the worst thing that can happen to a man in that position is that he live long enough to see how little vengeance leaves after it. I don’t think he has many illusions left to him, which is why he’s…” Master Kit shook himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wander off like that. Getting old, I think. I had wanted to say again that I’m sorry for what happened, and I am deeply committed to seeing that it not happen again.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I would also like to offer whatever help I can in seeing you safely to Carse. I feel we owe you more than a day’s free labor. A bit odd, I know, but I think pretending to be soldiers for so long left us all with a bit of the camaraderie of the sword.”
Cithrin nodded, but she felt her brow furrow even before she knew quite why. The church song sank in a final, conclusive cadence, and silence seemed to flow into the world like a wave. Seagulls looped through the high air, yellow beaks and steady, unflapping wings.
“Why do you apologize for everything you say?” she asked.
Master Kit turned to her, bushy eyebrows hoisted.
“I wasn’t aware that I did,” he said.
“You just did it again,” Cithrin said. “You never say anything straight out. It’s all
I believe
this or
I’ve found
that. You never say,
The sun rises in the morning.
It’s always,
I think the sun rises in the morning.
It’s like you’re trying not to promise anything.”
Master Kit went sober. His dark eyes considered her. Cithrin felt a chill run down her spine, but it wasn’t fear. It was like being on the edge of finding something that she’d only guessed was there. Master Kit rubbed a palm across his chin. The sound was soft and intimate and utterly mundane.
“I’m surprised you noticed that,” he said, then smiled at having done it again. “I have a talent for being believed, and I’ve found it to be problematic. I suppose I’ve adopted habits to soften the effect, and so I try not to assert things unless I’m certain of them. Absolutely certain, I mean. I’m often surprised by how little I’m absolutely certain of.”
“That’s an odd choice,” Cithrin said.
“And it encourages me to take myself lightly,” Master Kit said. “I find a certain value in lightness.”
“I wish I could,” she said. The despair in her voice surprised her, and then she was weeping.
The actor blinked, his arms shifting uncertainly, and Cithrin stood in the open street embarrassed by her own sobbing, but powerless to stop. Master Kit wrapped an arm
around her and led her forward to the steps of the church. His cloak was cheap wool, rough and still smelling of lanolin. He draped it over her shoulders. She leaned forward, her head on her knees. She felt the fear and the sorrow, but only at a distance. But the landslide had begun, and there was nothing she could do now but let it go. Master Kit placed his hand on her back, just between her shoulder blades, and rubbed gently, like a man soothing a baby. After a while, the sobs grew less violent. The tears dried. Cithrin eventually found her voice.
“I can’t do this,” she said. How many thousand times had she told herself that since the day Besel died? But always to herself. This was the first time she’d said the words aloud to anyone. They tasted sour. “I can’t do this.”
Master Kit took his arm back, but still shared his rough, cheap cloak. A few of the people walking by stared, but most ignored them. The old actor’s skin smelled like a spice shop. Cithrin wanted to curl up there on the cold stone steps, sleep, and never wake up.
“You can,” Master Kit said.
“No, I—”
“Cithrin, stop. Listen to my voice,” Master Kit said.
Cithrin turned. He looked older than she remembered him, and it took a moment to realize it was because he wasn’t smiling, even in the corner of his eyes. There were pouches under his eyes. His jowls sagged, and the stubble of his beard was more white than black. Cithrin waited.
“You can do this,” he said. “No, just listen to me. You can do this.”
“You mean you think that I can,” she said. “Or you expect that I will.”
“No. I meant what I said.
You can do this.
”
Something in the back of Cithrin’s mind shifted. Something
in her blood altered, like the surface of a pond rippling when a fish has passed too close beneath it. The overwhelming sorrow was still there, the fear that she would fail, the sense of being at the mercy of a wild and violent world. None of it went away. Only with it, there was something else. Hardly brighter than a firefly in the darkness of her mind, there was a new thought:
Perhaps.
Cithrin rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands and shook her head. The sun had shifted farther and faster than she’d expected. She didn’t know how long ago they’d left the new rooms.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“I felt I owed it to you,” Master Kit said. He seemed tired.
“Should we go back?”
“If you’re ready, I think we should.”
E
vening came later than Cithrin expected, another sign that winter was beginning to lose its grip. Yardem Hane sat on the floor, his huge legs crossed, and ate rice and fish from a plate. Captain Wester paced.
“If we pick the wrong ship,” the captain said, “they’ll murder us, throw our bodies to the sharks, and spend the rest of their lives living high in some port in Far Syramys or Lyoneia. But we’d only have the customs house here and the one in Carse to go past. On the road, we might have to weather half a dozen tax collectors.”
Cithrin looked at her own plate of fish, her belly too knotted to eat. Every word Wester said made it worse.
“We could backtrack,” Yardem said. “Go to the Free Cities, and north from there. Or back to Vanai, for that.”
“Without a caravan to hide in?” Marcus said.
The Tralgu shrugged, conceding the point. Behind the
constant motion of the captain’s legs, the wax-sealed books of the Vanai bank glowed in the candlelight. Cithrin’s anxiety circled back to them, images of cracked seal and rotting leather spines dancing through her head like a nightmare that wouldn’t fade.
“We could buy a fishing boat,” Yardem said. “Sail it ourselves. Hug the coast.”
“Fighting off pirates with our forceful personalities?” Marcus said. “Cabral is half rotten with free ships stealing the trade they can, and King Sephan isn’t about to stop them.”
“No good options,” Yardem said.
“None. And weeks still before we can take the bad ones,” Marcus said.
Cithrin put her plate on the ground and walked past Captain Wester. She took the topmost of the books, looked around the dim, gold-lit room, and found the short blade Yardem had used to carve cheese at midday. The blade was shining clean.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asked.
“I can’t choose the right ship,” Cithrin said, “or the right path, or a caravan to hide in. But I can see that the books aren’t wet, so I’m doing that.”
“We’ll just have to seal them again,” Marcus said, and Cithrin ignored him. The wax was as thick as her thumb, and came off in stubborn chunks. A layer of cloth beneath it gave way to a softer inner layer of wax, and then parchment wrapping. The book hidden inside it all could have been fresh from Magister Imaniel’s desk. Cithrin opened it, and the pages hissed against each other. The familiar marks of Magister Imaniel’s handwriting were like a memory from childhood, and Cithrin almost wept again seeing them. Her
fingers traced sums and notations, balances, transactions, details of contract and return rate. Magister Imaniel’s signature and the brown, cracked blood of his thumb. She let them wash over her, familiar and foreign at the same time. Here was the deposit the bank had taken from the bakers’ guild, and there in blue ink, a record of the payments made as recompense, month by month, for the years they’d held the money. She turned the page. Here was the record of loss on shipping insurance from the year that the storms had come up from Lyoneia later than ever before. The sums shocked her. She hadn’t guessed that the loss had been so profound. She closed the book, took her blade, and found another. Marcus and Yardem were still talking, but they could have been in another city for all it mattered to her.