The Dragon's Path

thing she had ever made for herself, would be taken from her as soon as the auditor arrived. She couldn’t bring herself to think that a few guards leaving early could matter.
    But it did.
    Slowly, very slowly, the storm within her stilled. It was full dark now, and tiny raindrops tapped against the window like fingernails. She reached for the wine bottle beside the bed and was surprised to find it empty. But there was still the other bottle. And the tun of beer. She would be all right. She only needed to get her strength back. A few more minutes were all she needed.
    She hadn’t quite roused herself when the footsteps came. First the steady tramp at the base of the stairway, and then, before it even reached the top, heavier thudding. Something hit the wall of the house, and Yardem grunted. There was a wet sound that might have been rain pouring off the roof, but seemed nearer than that. A light glowed. A lantern in Wester’s hand. And behind him, Yardem Hane and the two Kurtadam guards struggling with a copper basin easily four feet long.
    “We should have brought it first and filled it later,” Enen said, her voice straining.
    “We’ll know next time,” Marcus said.
    Through her doorway, she saw the three guards put down the basin. It was as tall as Marcus’s knee and it sloshed.
    “What are you doing?” Cithrin asked, her voice smaller and weaker than she’d expected it to be.
    Ignoring her, Yardem handed a round stone jar to the captain and started lighting the candles and lamps in the main room. The two Kurtadam saluted and went back down the stairs. Cithrin sat up, steadying herself with one hand. Marcus walked toward her, and before she could stop him,he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her off the bed. Her knees hit the floor with a thud and a stab of pain.
    “What are you
doing
?” she shouted.
    “I tried talking first,” Wester said, and pushed her into the basin. The water was warm. “Take those rags off or else I will.”
    “I am not going to—”
    In the growing light of the candles, his expression was hard and implacable.
    “I’ve seen girls before. I’m not going to be shocked. I’ve got soap here,” he said, pressing the stone jar into her hand. “And be sure to wash your hair. It’s greasy enough to catch fire.”
    Cithrin looked at the jar. It was heavier than she’d expected, with a tight-fit lid. She didn’t know the last time she’d washed herself. When he spoke again, his voice was resigned.
    “Either you do it, or I will.”
    “Don’t watch,” she said, and as she did, she realized that she was agreeing to a contract whose terms she didn’t yet know. All she felt was relief that they hadn’t left her.
    Marcus made in impatient sound, but turned to face the stairway. Yardem coughed discreetly and stepped into the bedroom. Cithrin pulled off the carter’s clothes and knelt in the basin. The air felt cold against her skin. A carved wood bowl floated beside her, and she used it to rinse herself. She hadn’t realized how filthy she’d felt until she didn’t anymore.
    A familiar voice came from the stairway.
    “Is she there?” Cary asked.
    “She is,” Marcus said. “Just toss it up for now.”
    The actor grunted, and Marcus moved forward, catching a bundle of rope and cloth out of the air.
    “We’ll be downstairs,” Cary said, and Cithrin’s street door opened and closed. Marcus untied the rope and passed a length of soft flannel out behind him. Cithrin took the towel from his hand.
    “Got a clean dress here too,” he said. “You say when you’re decent.”
    Cithrin stepped out of the bath shivering and dried herself quickly. The water in the basin was dark, a scum of suds floating on the top. Shrugging on the dress, she recognized it as one of Cary’s. The cloth smelled of face paints and dust.
    “I’m decent,” she said.
    Yardem came out of her bedroom. He’d fashioned her blanket into a sack and filled it with empty wineskins and bottles. The tun and her remaining bottle were in with the dead. She reached out, ready to tell him to leave those, that she wasn’t done with them. The Tralgu cocked an ear, his earring jingling. She let him pass.
    “I’ve got food coming,” Marcus said. “You have all the bank’s records in here?”
    “There’s a transaction ledger at the café,” she said. “And copies of a few of the contracts.”
    “I’ll send someone. I am posting a guard at the foot of the stairs and under that window. No drink