The Dragon's Path

fortified wine for her. His leg settled easily beside hers, as if the touch were perfectly normal. Cithrin considered shifting to leave a few inches between them. Instead, she drank a generous mouthful of the wine, enjoying the bite of it. Sandr smiled and sipped at his own beer.
    This was, she realized, a negotiation. He wanted to do some of the things he’d just finished mocking in the sex play, and he in turn was willing to offer up food and alcohol, attention and sympathy. And, whether he knew it or not, experience. Implicit exchange was something Magister Imaniel had talked about several times, and always with disdain. He’d liked the precision of measuring coin. Here, in the warmth of the taproom, the tastes of salted meat and fortified wine warming her blood, Cithrin wasn’t sure she agreed. Surely imprecision had its place.
    “I’m sorry about Vanai,” Sandr said, using the same gambit he’d tried before the play.
    Now what was the effect of saying that? Reminding her how badly she needed reassurance and the feeling of connection, she supposed. Making the things he offered seem valuable. Still, he’d made that point earlier. Stating it again was a mistake. Maybe if he’d interspersed it with other tactics.He could devalue her side of the exchange. If, for instance he’d criticized her dress or the cut of her hair, making it clear that lying down at her side wasn’t likely worth so much. The danger there being that she might take offense and end the negotiation. Or pretend offense as a way of forcing him to raise his offer.
    “Cithrin?” he said, and she shook herself.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “My mind was elsewhere.”
    “The beer’s good. Have you been here before?”
    “I’ve meant to,” she said. “Something’s always come up.”
    “Want some?”
    “All right,” she said.
    She’d expected him to pass his tankard to her, but instead he lifted his arm, calling over the server, and bought a tankard just for her. It was complex and thick, the alcohol lurking in a rich play of flavors. It didn’t have the astringent cleanness of the fortified wine. How had Captain Wester put it?
Get her stupid drunk to get her knees apart.
Something like that.
    It occurred to her that Sandr wasn’t a man with a wide variety of strategies.
    “I don’t remember my parents,” Cithrin said. “The bank raised me, bought my clothes and tutors.”
    “You must have loved them,” Sandr said, playing the part of the consoler with his voice and pressing his thigh against hers with just a bit more fervor. Still, Cithrin considered the question.
    Had she loved Magister Imaniel? She supposed so. She’d certainly loved Cam and wanted Besel. She’d wept for them all when the first news came. But she wasn’t weeping now. The grief was still with her, but there was something else beside it. A terrible sense of possibility.
    “I suppose I must,” she said.
    He took her hand, as if in sympathy. His brow furrowed and he leaned toward her.
    “I’m so sorry, Cithrin,” he said, and to her amazement, tears came to her eyes. That couldn’t be right.
    Sandr leaned forward, dabbing gently at her eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. Washing away the tears he had called forth. The stab of resentment at the little hypocrisy clarified many questions.
    “Captain Wester!” she gasped, and Sandr dropped her hand like it had bit him. He glanced out from behind the almost-curtain.
    “Where?” he said.
    “He just stepped into the other room,” Cithrin said. “Go, Sandr. Before he sees you!”
    Sandr swallowed, nodded once, and slipped off the bench, heading for the alley door. Cithrin watched him go, then reached over and pulled his tankard to her as well. The chicken did go well with it after all. As she drank, her mind wandered. She wasn’t angry at Sandr, but she couldn’t bring herself to respect him. On another night, she might have let his scene play out, if only to see where it led. But it was increasingly clear that Master Kit intended to remain in Porte Oliva for some time. Since she wasn’t sure when or how she’d depart the city, making that kind of connection was sure to complicate things. And then what if she got pregnant? Everything would fall apart then. Easier to stay out than to get out later. Still, she did wonder what it would have been like. Her mind shifted back to the mill pond, the snow against her skin, the weight of the boy upon her.
    She finished the second beer and went back to the