The Dragon's Path

Wester would still make his little jokes—
I’m too stubborn to die
or
You don’t need love when there’s laundry to wash
—and the people around him would chuckle. Only the apostate knew how deeply the man meant what he said.
    It was what made the mercenary captain interesting.
    The taproom near the bank had the advantage in these cold months of keeping food and a warm fire. Cary and Charlit Soon would set up in the common room some nights, singing songs from the lighter comic operas and making between them enough to feed the whole company for three days.
    “Always best to keep your political assassinations discreet,” Wester said. “Really, that was where I went wrong. Well, it’s not the first place I went wrong.”
    “One of the places, sir,” Yardem Hane said.
    “Will it keep Northcoast from violence, do you think?”
    “They poisoned a man so he’d vomit himself to death,” Marcus said. “That’s violence. But with his claim disposed, I don’t see any swords taking the field, no. So that’s good for the Narinisle trade. And apparently Antea’s decided not to descend into civil war either.”
    “I didn’t know they were on the dragon’s path,” the apostate said, taking a sip of his ale. During winter, they kept it in the alley under guard, so it was as cold as the rooms were warm.
    “Didn’t either. This new notary gets reports from everyplace, though. It’s one of the advantages of being part of a bank where the bank people know about you. Anyway, it seems the only thing that kept the court in Camnipol from turning on each other like a pack of starving dogs was a religious zealot from the Keshet.”
    “Really?”
    “Well,” Wester said, “he’s a real Antean noble, but apparently he spent time in the Keshet and came back with a bad case of the faith. Exposed some sort of plot, turned the court on its ears, and built a temple just down the street from the Kingspire to celebrate.”
    “There’s nothing sinister about building temples, sir,” Yardem said. “People do it all the time.”
    “Not in celebration,” Wester said. “People go to God when they’ve got trouble. Things are well, there’s not much point sucking after the divine.”
    Yardem flicked a jingling ear and leaned toward the apostate.
    “He says these things to annoy me.”
    “Always works.”
    “It does, sir,” the Tralgu lied.
    “And the Goddess of Round Pies seems especially dim.”
    “Round pies?” the apostate asked.
    “The cult’s got a symbol. Big red banner with a white bit in the middle, and what looks like eight bits of pie all stuck together.”
    “Eight points on a compass,” Yardem said.
    No,
the apostate thought, dread pouring into him like dark water.
No, the eight legs of a spider.
    “You all right, Kit?” Wester asked. “You’re looking pale.”
    “Fine,” the apostate said. “Just fine.”
    But in his mind there was a single thought:
    It’s begun.