The Dragon's Path

pelt graying across the face, throat, and back, who represented a chartered collaboration of the shipwrights’ guild and two local merchant houses. A Cinnae man with slightly too much rouge on his cheeks turned out to be the owner of a mercenary company large enough to rent itself to kings. Sitting alone under the spreading fronds of a palm tree, a Tralgu woman drank water and ate shrimp, listening to everything said with a concentration that left Cithrin unnerved. All of them had agendas and histories, interests and weaknesses. Magister Imaniel would have been able to glance across the room and drawconclusions. Or at least educated guesses. Cithrin, on the other hand, was still a year too young to claim her inheritance. The wine was excellent. The conversation friendly and convivial. She felt like she was swimming in a warm ocean, waiting for something to come up from the depths, take her by the leg, and draw her down to the cold.
    It didn’t help untie her knots that everyone seemed to view her with curiosity. The voice and agent of the Medean bank, newly arrived in the city, and throwing off everyone’s plans. None of them, Cithrin told herself, had expected her to be a player in this game. She was badly behind in understanding the politics at play in the courtyard with its brightly colored finches and sun-warmed flagstones, but she had mysteries of her own. The longer she remained a cipher to them, the more she could make sense of the game. She handed her empty glass to one of the queensmen and took another. Wine kept the fear at bay.
    “Magistra bel Sarcour,” the governor said, appearing at her elbow. “You were in Vanai, yes? Before the Antean aggression.”
    “Just before,” Cithrin said.
    “Lucky you got out,” the Tralgu woman said. Her voice was as low as Yardem Hane’s, but it didn’t have the same warmth.
    “I am,” Cithrin said, keeping her tone neutral and polite.
    “What do you make of the fate of the city?” the governor asked. Cithrin had anticipated the question, and she had her answer at the ready.
    “Antea has a long history of military interference in the Free Cities,” Cithrin said. “Magister Imaniel and I were expecting the occupation a season earlier than it came. That the Anteans didn’t intend to hold the city was only clear in the last few weeks before they arrived.”
    “You think they always intended to destroy Vanai?” a man behind the governor said. He had the features of a Firstblood, but golden skin with a roughness to it that reminded Cithrin of a Jasuru. His eyes were a shocking green. His name was Qahuar Em, and he spoke for a group part trading association and part nomadic tribe from the north reaches of Lyoneia. From his appearance, she guessed he was half Jasuru, though Cithrin hadn’t known that was possible.
    “We had a strong suspicion,” she said to him.
    “But why would the Severed Throne do such a thing?” the governor asked.
    “Because they’re a bloodthirsty bunch of unmodified northern savages,” the Tralgu woman said. “Barely better than monkeys.”
    “The story I’d heard was that the burning was unexpected, even by King Simeon,” the Cinnae mercenary said. “The local commander took the action as some sort of political theater piece.”
    “Doesn’t argue against my monkeys-with-swords thesis,” the Tralgu woman said, and the governor chuckled.
    “I’m not surprised that there’s more than one interpretation,” Cithrin said. “Still, you’ll forgive me if I’m pleased that I followed the information that we had.”
    “I heard that Komme Medean was moving his interests to the north, and Antea in particular,” the graying Kurtadam said. “Damned odd seeing him take an aggressive position in the south.”
    Cithrin felt a flutter of concern. If the bank were involving itself in the northern countries—Antea, Asterilhold, Northcoast, Hallskar, and Sarakal—she might well have stepped on toes by founding a branch at the far end of the continent.It wasn’t something she was ready to address, so the conversation had to be moved away from the issue and quickly. She smiled the way she imagined Magister Imaniel might have.
    “Is there really such a thing as purely northern interests?” she asked. “Narinisle is in the north, and it seems to concern all of us.”
    The air in the courtyard seemed to still. She’d pulled the hidden meaning of all their banter and laid it on the table. She wondered whether she’d just been