The Dragon's Path

Asinport. But what if they were expecting the trade to go on past Asterilhold to Antea or Sarakal or Hallskar? Two dozen men in a single ship wasn’t a small thing, but would Lyoniean sailors do well in the colderwaters of the north? Could she argue, with her ties to Carse, that she’d be able to provide ships more experienced in the native waters? And if she made the argument, would it be true?
    And why had Opal betrayed her? And why had God let Magister Imaniel die? And Cam? And her parents? And did Sandr still want her? Would Cary still be her friend? Did Master Kit still approve of who and what she was? What did other people do when they had no friends and their lovers were their enemies? There had to be some better way to do things.
    The tears welled up in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She didn’t feel sad. She barely felt anything at all besides tired and annoyed with herself. She was suffering some sort of little fit, and she could wait until it passed. The dice game shifted, and two men’s voices caught up a tune, coming together and apart.
    Cithrin forced herself to sitting. Then standing. Then she stripped off last night’s clothes and put on a simple skirt and blouse. She tied back her hair until she saw the little bite marks that Qahuar had left on her neck and let her hair back down. She filled the little basin by her bedside, washed her face. The paints Cary had left were there, and Cithrin considered remaking Magistra Cithrin of the Medean bank. She decided against it—she had little enough energy as it was—and went downstairs.
    When she opened the door, the company went quiet. The two Firstblood men looked at each other and then away. The paler of them was blushing visibly. The Kurtadam man nodded.
    “Sorry about that, Magistra,” he said. “Didn’t think you were here.”
    Cithrin waved the concern away.
    “Yardem?” she said.
    “In the back room, Magistra,” the Kurtadam said.
    Cithrin walked past the guards to the rear, then through into the darkness. Yardem Hane lay on a long, low cot, fingers laced over his belly. His eyes were closed, his ears folded and soft. Cithrin was just about to turn around, putting the conversation off for another time, when he spoke.
    “Help you, ma’am?”
    “Um. Yes. Yardem,” she said. “You know the captain as well as anybody.”
    “That’s true,” the Tralgu said, his eyes still closed and his voice calm.
    “I think I may have upset him,” she said.
    “You wouldn’t be the first, ma’am. If it gets to be a problem, the captain will tell you.”
    “All right.”
    “Anything else, ma’am?”
    The Tralgu didn’t move apart from the ride and fall of his chest.
    “I slept with a man, and now I’m going to betray him,” she said, and her voice sounded as grey and hard as slate. “I have to do it to keep my bank, but I think I feel guilty about it.”
    Yardem opened one soft black eye.
    “I forgive you,” the Tralgu said.
    Cithrin nodded. She shut the door behind her when she left, then walked back out the street and up her private stair. The voices below her were quiet now, aware that the owner of the house might hear them. She sat at her writing desk, took out the books, and began drafting the proposal that would beat out Qahuar Em.

Geder
     
    G eder couldn’t say exactly when they left the dragon’s road. At first, it was only that wind and weather had heaped dirt and desert hardpack over the path, even as it passed through a few of the sprawling caravanserais that passed for cities in the Keshet. Then the last of the great meeting places fell away behind him, and the jade of the roadway became rarer, the brown of the earth and yellow-grey of desert grass more common. Then the path was only visible as a stretch where the scrub and weeds were smaller, their roots blocked inches from the surface.
    And then it was gone, and Geder was riding through the mountains and valleys at the eastern edge of the world. The trees were thin and twisting, with thick, almost ropey bark that seemed designed to imitate stone. At night, tiny lizards with bright yellow tails skittered across the ground and through the tents. Morning often found one or more dead in the horses’ feed sacks. Water became scarce enough that every muddy wisp of a creek meant his five servants would fill everything that would hold moisture, and even so Geder often saw their supply fall to less than half. Every night, he heard the servants talking about bandits