The Dragon's Path

disrespect, sir, but my contracts don’t have your thumb on them.”
    He was a smallish man, the top of his head coming no higher than Marcus’s shoulder, and his clothes smelled like his shop: sandalwood, pepper, cumin, and fennel. His face was narrow as a fox, and his smile looked practiced. The lower rooms of the Medean bank of Porte Oliva had Marcus, Yardem, Ahariel the stout Kurtadam, and the ever-present Roach. The weight of their blades alone was likely as much as the spicer, and yet the man’s disdain for them radiated like heat from a fire.
    “But since she isn’t here,” Marcus said, “I’m what you’ve got to work with.”
    The spicer’s eyebrows rose and his tiny little lips pressed thin. Yardem coughed, and Marcus felt a stab of chagrin. The Tralgu was right.
    “However,” Marcus went on, “if you’ll accept our hospitality for a few minutes, sir, I’ll do my best to find her.”
    “That’s better,” the man said. “Perhaps a cup of tea while I wait?”
    I could kill you with my hands,
Marcus thought, and it was enough to evoke the smile that etiquette called for.
    “Roach?” Marcus said. “If you could see our guest is comfortable?”
    “Yes, Captain,” the little Timzinae said, jumping up. “If you’ll come this way, sir?”
    Marcus stepped out the door and onto the street, Yardem following him as close as a shadow. The evening sun was still high in the western sky. The pot of tulips in front of the bank was in full, brilliant bloom, the flowers sporting bright red petals veined with white.
    “You take the Grand Market,” Yardem said, “I’ll check the taproom.”
    Marcus shook his head and spat on the paving stones.
    “If you’d rather find her, I can go to the Grand Market,” Yardem said.
    “Stay here,” Marcus said. “I’ll be right back.”
    Marcus walked down the street. Sweat pooled between his shoulder blades and down his spine. A yellow-faced dog looked up at him from the shadow of an alleyway, panting and too hot to bark. The streets were emptier now than they would be after sunset, the light driving people to shelter more effectively than darkness. Even the voices of the beggars and street sellers seemed overcooked and limp.
    The taproom was cool by comparison. The candles were unlit to keep from adding even that little extra heat to the darkness, and so despite the brightness of the street, the tables of the common room were dim. Marcus squinted, willing his eyes sharper. There were a dozen people there of several races, but none of them was her. From the back, Cithrin laughed. Marcus threaded his way across the common room, following the familiar tones of her voice to the draped cloth that kept the private tables private.
    “… would have the effect of rewarding the most reliable debtors.”
    “Only until they start becoming unreliable,” a man’s voice said speaking more softly. “Your system encourages debtors to extend, and if that goes on long enough, you change good risks to bad.”
    “Magistra,” Marcus said. “If you have a moment?”
    Cithrin pulled aside the cloth. As Marcus had expected, the half-Jasuru man was with her. Qahuar Em. The competition. A plate of cheese and pickled carrots sat on the table between them alongside a wine bottle well on its way to empty. Cithrin’s dress of embroidered linen flattered her figure, and her hair, which had been pulled back, was spilling in casual disarray down her shoulder.
    “Captain?”
    Marcus nodded toward the alley door. Profound annoyance flashed across Cithrin’s face.
    “I could step out,” Qahuar Em offered.
    “No. I’ll be right back,” Cithrin said. Marcus followed her out. The alley stank of spoiled food and piss. Cithrin folded her arms.
    “The spicer’s come with the commissions for the week,” Marcus said. “He won’t give over to anyone but you.”
    Cithrin’s frown drew lines at the corners of her mouth and between her brow. Her fingers tapped gently against her arms.
    “He wants to talk about something else,” she said.
    “And not with your hired swords,” Marcus said. “That’s my assumption.”
    The girl nodded, attention shifting inward.
    It was moments like this, when she forgot herself, that she changed. The false maturity that Master Kit and the players had trained her into was convincing, but it wasn’t Cithrin.And the giddy young woman who shifted between overconfidence and insecurity wasn’t her either. With her face smooth, her mind moving in its