The Dragon's Path

for Northcoast. Undyed wool cloth he’s moving to keep from losing it in the war.”
    Cithrin didn’t nod or shake her head. The world was spinning a little, and everything had the sense of being part of a terrible dream.
    “When you reach Carse,” Magister Imaniel continued, “you take the cart to the holding company. I’ll give you a map and directions. And a letter that will explain everything.”
    “It’s weeks on the road!” Cam shouted. “Months, if there’s snow in the pass.”
    Magister Imaniel turned, rage lighting his eyes. His voice was low and cold.
    “What would you have me do? Keep her here? She’s no safer in our beds than passing for a carter in a caravan. And I will
not
simply accept the loss.”
    “I don’t understand,” Cithrin said. Her voice sounded distant in her ears, as if she were shouting over surf.
    “The prince’s men are watching us,” Magister Imaniel said. “I must assume they’re watching anyone in the bank’s employ. And, I expect, the bank’s ward, Cithrin the half-Cinnae. Tag the Carter, on the other hand…”
    “The carter?” Cithrin said, echoing him more than thinking thoughts of her own.
    “The cart’s false,” Cam said, her voice thick with despair. “Besel was set to take it. Smuggle out all the money we can.”
    “The gold?” Cithrin said. “You want
me
to take the gold to Carse?”
    “Some, yes,” Magister Imaniel said. “But gold’s heavy. We’re better sending gems and jewelry. They’re worth more. Spices. Tobacco leaf. Silk. Things light enough they’ll pack tight and won’t break the axles. And the account books. The real ones. As for the coins and ingots… well, I’ll think of something.”
    He smiled like the mask of a smile. Besel’s corpse seemed to shift its shoulders in the flickering light. A draught of cold air rubbed against her bare thighs, and the knot in her belly tightened until she tasted vomit in the back of her mouth.
    “You can do this thing, my dear,” Magister Imaniel said. “I have faith in you.”
    “Thank you,” she said, swallowing.
    C ithrin walked through the streets of Vanai, her stomach in knots. The false mustache was the sort of thin, weedy thing a callow boy might cultivate and be proud of. Her clothes were a mix of Besel’s shirts and jackets resewn in the privacy of the bank and whatever cheap, mended rags could be scrounged. They hadn’t dared to buy anything new. Her hair was tea-stained to an almost colorless brown and combed forward to obscure her face. She walked with the wider gait Magister Imaniel had taught her, a knot of uncomfortable cloth held tight against her sex to remind her that she was supposed to have a cock.
    She felt worse than foolish. She felt like a mummer in clown face and comic shoes. She felt like the most obvious fraud in the city, or the world. And every time she closed hereyes, Besel’s corpse waited for her. Every voice that called out started her heart skipping faster. She waited for the knife, the arrow, the lead-tipped cudgel. But the streets of Vanai didn’t notice her.
    Everywhere, the final preparations for the war were being made. Merchants nailed their windows closed. Wagons clogged the streets as families who had chosen not to flee to the countryside changed their minds and left and others that had gone changed their minds and returned. Criers in the service of the prince announced the improbable thousand men on the march now from their new allies, and the old Timzinae men by the quayside laughed and said they’d all be better off Antean than married to Maccia. Press gangs scattered people before them like wolves snapping at hens. And in the Old Quarter, the tall, dark, richly carved doors of Master Will’s shop were flung wide. The street was jammed with carts and wagons, mules and horses and oxen. The caravan was forming in the square, and Cithrin made her way through the press of the crowd toward the wide, leather-capped form of Master Will.
    “Sir,” she said in a soft, low voice. Master Will didn’t answer, and so uncertainly she tugged at his sleeve.
    “What?” the old man said.
    “My name’s Tag, sir. I’ve come to drive Magister Imaniel’s cart.”
    Master Will’s eyes went wide for a moment and he glanced around to see if they’d been heard. Cithrin cursed silently. Not Magister Imaniel’s cart. The bank didn’t have a cart. She was driving the wool cart. It was her first mistake. Master Will coughed and took her by the