The Dragon's Path

severallayers thick against the spring cold, and a bronze chain of office. For the most part his features were Firstblood, but slight and fair enough that he might have had a grandfather among the Cinnae.
    “Forgive me,” he said, his voice scrupulously polite. “Am I addressing Cithrin bel Sarcour?”
    “You are,” Cithrin said.
    “Governor Siden sent me,” the man said.
    Fear punched the breath out of her. They’d discovered the forgery. They were sending the guard. She cleared her throat and smiled.
    “Is there a problem?” she asked.
    “Not at all,” the messenger said, and produced a small letter, the smooth paper neatly folded and the sides sewn and sealed. “But he did suggest I wait in the event that you wished to reply.”
    Cithrin held the paper, uncertain where to look—it, the man, the captain. After what seemed entirely too long, she shook herself.
    “If you’ll let Maestro Asanpur know you’ve come on my business, he’ll see you in comfort.”
    “You are very kind, Magistra.”
    Cithrin waited until the man disappeared into the café before she pulled the thread. It cut through the paper with a rattle. Trembling a little, she pressed the opened page onto the table. The script was beautifully shaped, the work of a professional scribe.
To Magistra Cithrin bel Sarcour, voice and agent of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva, I, Idderrigo Bellind Siden, Prime Governor of Porte Oliva by special commission of Her Royal Highness
and on and on and on. Her fingertips slid down the page.
I request your private attention as a voice of trade and a citizen of Porte Oliva concerning certain matters central to the health and vigorof the city
and on and on and on. And then, near the bottom of the first page, she stopped.
    The solicitation and arrangement of joint civic security as concerns the safe conduct of maritime trade in the coming year…
    “Good God,” she said.
    “What is it?” Captain Wester said. His voice was low and steady. He sounded ready for her to say they had to kill the messenger and flee the city. Cithrin swallowed to loosen her throat.
    “If I am reading this correctly,” she said, “the governor is asking us to propose a joint venture with the city to escort the trade ships from Narinisle.”
    “Ah,” Wester said. And then, “You know I don’t understand what you just said, yes?”
    “He’s putting together a fleet. Fighting ships to see the traders safely up and back. And he’s looking for someone with the purse to fund it.”
    “Meaning us?”
    “No,” she said, her mind running through the implications with an eerie and cool precision. “He’ll want several parties to make proposals, but he’s inviting us into the fight. He’s asking the Medean bank to make a proposal to underwrite a single-city fleet.”
    The captain grunted as if he understood. Cithrin was already miles ahead of him and running fast. If Porte Oliva could make itself a more attractive port than the Free Cities, more ships would contract from here. Insurance rates would drop, as the trade seemed less risky. That would hurt anyone who had been trading on insurance alone. And Maccia would hate it, and Cabral would take it poorly if the escort went that far. She wondered what the chances were of direct retaliation against the escort ships.
    “Is that the kind of thing we’d be likely to do?” Wester asked from some other part of the world.
    “If we took the commission and did the thing well, we’d have connections all through the south and a thumb on the Inner Sea. We’d have something to give the holding company more valuable than a cartload of gold,” Cithrin said. “They
couldn’t
object to what we’ve done.”
    “So it is something we might take on, then.”
    The knot in Cithrin’s belly was still there, but something about it changed. She found herself smiling. Grinning.
    “Win this,” she said, holding up the pages, “and we win
everything.
”
    T he meeting at the governor’s palace pretended to be nothing. A half dozen men and women sat in a garden courtyard. Queensmen poured out scented water and spiced wine. The governor was a small man, thick-bellied and balding. He treated all his guests with grace and kindness, and as such was practically useless as a guide to who among the assemblage were important. She had hoped to follow his cues, paying attention to the people with whom he spent the most time. Instead, she was left to wonder.
    There was an older Kurtadam man, his