The Dragon's Path

heels, Magister Imaniel his shoulders. Together, they hauled the body into the dining room and laid him on the wide wooden table. There were cuts on Besel’s face and hands. A deep gouge ran from his wrist almost to his elbow, the sleeve torn by the blade’s passage. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t bleed. He looked as peaceful as a man asleep.
    The cunning man came, rubbed powders into Besel’s empty eyes, pressed palms to his silent chest, called the spirits and the angels. Besel took one long, ragged breath, but the magic wasn’t enough. Magister Imaniel paid the cunning man three thick silver coins and sent him on his way. Cam lit a fire in the grate, the flames giving Besel the eerie illusion of motion.
    Magister Imaniel stood at the head of the table, looking down. Cithrin stepped forward and took Besel’s cold andstiffening hand. She wanted badly to cry, but she couldn’t. Fear and pain and terrible disbelief raged in her and found no escape. When she looked up, Magister Imaniel’s gaze was on her.
    Cam spoke. “We should have given it over. Let the prince take what he wants. It’s only money.”
    “Bring me his clothes,” Magister Imaniel said. “A clean shirt. And that red jacket he disliked.”
    His eyes were moving now, darting as if reading words written in the air. Cam and Cithrin exchanged a glance. Cithrin’s first, mad thought was that he wanted to wash and dress the body for burial.
    “Cam?” Magister Imaniel said. “Did you hear me? Go!”
    The old woman heaved herself up from the hearth and trundled quickly into the depths of house. Magister Imaniel turned to Cithrin. His cheeks were flushed, but she couldn’t say if it was rage or shame or something deeper.
    “Can you steer a cart?” he asked. “Drive a small team? Two mules.”
    “I don’t know,” Cithrin said. “Maybe.”
    “Strip,” he said.
    She blinked.
    “Strip,” he said. “Your night clothes. Take them off. I need to see what were working with.”
    Uncertainly, Cithrin lifted her hands to the stays at her shoulders, undid the knots, and let the cloth fall to the floor. The cold air raised gooseflesh on her skin. Magister Imaniel made small noises in the back of his throat as he walked around her, making some evaluation she couldn’t fathom. The corpse of Besel made no move. She felt the echo of shame. It occurred to her that she had never been naked in front of a man before.
    Cam’s eyes went wide when she returned, her mouth making a little
O
of surprise. And then, less than a heartbeat later, her expression went hard as stone.
    “No,” Cam said.
    “Give me the shirt,” Magister Imaniel said.
    Cam did nothing. He walked over and lifted Besel’s shirt and jacket from her. She didn’t stop him. Without speaking, he dropped the shirt over Cithrin’s head. The cloth was soft and warm, and smelled of the dead man’s skin. The hem dropped down low enough to restore some measure of modesty. Magister Imaniel stood back, and a bleak pleasure appeared at the corners of his eyes. He tossed Cithrin the jacket and nodded that she should put it on.
    “We’ll need some needlework done,” he said, “but it’s possible.”
    “You mustn’t do this, sir,” Cam said. “She’s just a girl.”
    Magister Imaniel ignored her, stepping close again to pull Cithrin’s hair back from her face. He tapped his fingers together as if trying to remember something, bent to the fire grate, and rubbed his thumb through the soot. He smudged Cithrin’s cheeks and chin. She smelled old smoke.
    “We’ll need something better, but…” he said, clearly speaking only to himself. “Now… what is your name?”
    “Cithrin?” she said.
    Magister Imaniel barked out a laugh.
    “What kind of name is that for a fine strapping boy like yourself? Tag. Your name is Tag. Say that.”
    “My name is Tag,” she said.
    Magister Imaniel’s face twisted in scorn. “You talk like a girl, Tag.”
    “My name is Tag,” Cithrin said, roughening her voice and mumbling.
    “Fair,” he said. “Only fair. But we’ll work on it.”
    “You can’t do this,” Cam said.
    Magister Imaniel smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
    “The prince has crossed a line,” he said. “The policy of the bank is clear. He gets nothing.”
    “You
are
the policy of the bank,” Cam said.
    “And I am
clear.
Tag, my boy? A week from now, you are going to go to Master Will, down in the Old Quarter. He’s going to hire you to drive a cart in a caravan bound