The Dragon's Path

greens and wheat cakes, then went back to the voices and music. Cithrin stood to follow her and then sat back down.
    As she ate, the stars came out. Snow made the pale blue light of a three-quarter moon seem brighter than it should have been. The cold grew, and Cithrin huddled closer to her small fire. The chill seeped in, pressing on her. Narrowing her. Later, when the captain and the Tralgu had gone out scouting and the others had gone to sleep, she’d sneak into the mill house and find a corner to curl up in. At breakfast, she’d avoid the stares and curiosity of the other carters and come back to her mules as quickly as she could. Daylight was scarce, and the caravan master didn’t leave much time for idle banter. These long, dark, cold hours between work’s end and sleep were the worst part of her day. She passed them by retreating into her mind.
    She might begin by singing herself songs or recalling plays and performances she’d gone to as part of the bank. Before long, though, she found herself returning to Magister Imaniel and his constant dinner-table testing. The difference between a gift given for a consideration and a formal loan, the paradox of two parties following reason and yet coming to a solution to no one’s advantage, the strategies of a single contract and the strategies of a contract that is continually renewed. The puzzles were the playthings of her childhood, and she came to them now for comfort and solace.
    She found herself estimating the worth of the caravan as a whole, how much they might have gained in Carse and how much more or less they would have to offer in Porte Oliva to make the two journeys balance. She thought about Bellin, and whether taxation on passage or on boarding would make the township richer. At what point it would make as much sense to abandon the carts as to keep on. Whether Magister Imaniel had been wise to invest in a brewery and also insure it against fire. In the absence of real information,it was no more than a game, but it was the game that she knew best.
    Banking, Magister Imaniel said, wasn’t about gold and silver. It was about who knew something no one else did, about who could be trusted and who not, about seeming one thing and being another. With the questions she asked herself, she could conjure him and Cam and Besel. She could see their faces again, hear their laughter, and sink into another time and place. One where she was loved. Or no, not truly. But at least where she belonged.
    Even as the night around her grew colder, the knot in her belly loosened. Her tight-curled body grew softer and more at ease. She fed larger sticks into the fire, watching the flames first dim under the weight of the wood, and then brighten as it caught. The heat touched her face and hands, and the wool wrapped around her kept the worst of the night at bay.
    What would happen, she wondered, if a bank offered a greater loan to those who’d repaid an old one before the set time? The borrowers would gain more gold by the arrangement, and the bank would see its profits more quickly.
And yet,
Magister Imaniel said in her mind,
if everyone benefits, you’ve overlooked something.
There was some consequence that she was missing…
    “Cithrin.”
    She looked up. Sandr, half crouched, scuttled from the shadows between the carts. One of the mules lifted his head, snorted a great plume of white breath, and went back to his rest. As Sandr sat, she heard an odd clanking of metal and the telltale sloshing of wine in a skin.
    “You didn’t,” she said, and Sandr grinned.
    “Master Kit won’t mind. He stocked up again as soon as we reached Bellin, getting ready for the winter. Only nowhe’s got to haul it through the back end of the world. We’ll be doing him a favor, lightening the load.”
    “You are going to get in so much trouble,” she said.
    “Never happen.”
    He opened the skin with a gloved hand and held it out to her. The smell of the fumes warmed her almost before the wine. Rich and strong and soft, it washed her mouth and tongue, flowed down her throat. The warmth of it lit her like she’d swallowed a candle. There was no sweetness to it, but something deeper.
    “
God,
” she said.
    “It’s good, isn’t it?” Sandr said.
    She grinned and took another long drink. Then another. The warmth spread into her belly and started pressing out toward her arms and legs. Reluctantly, she passed it back.
    “That’s not all,” he said. “I’ve got something for