The Dragon's Path

carts as proof the road taxes had been paid. With a shout, he led them down a side road of hard, pale brick to the yard.
    Journey’s end. Marcus made his way to the front cart. The caravan master had a cloth sack waiting for him. It jingled when he held it out.
    “You can count it,” the Timzinae said.
    “That’s fine,” Marcus said.
    The ’van master’s brows lifted, then he shrugged.
    “Suit yourself. But don’t come later saying it was short.”
    “Won’t.”
    “All right, then.”
    Marcus nodded and turned away. He took out his share and Yardem’s, then despite what he’d said, he counted the rest. It was all there.
    The players were at their own cart, still wearing their armor and swords. The road had changed them and it hadn’t. They were harder now, and each of them could handle a sword like a soldier. On the other hand, they laughed and joked now as much as they had in the tavern in Vanai. Sandr and Smit were competing now to see who could hold a handstand longest. Cary, Opal, and Mikel traded quips and barbs as they saw to their mules. Master Kit sat on the cart’s high bench, watching over it all like a benevolent saint from the old stories. Marcus went to him.
    “It appears we’ve managed the trick, then,” Master Kit said. “I hadn’t expected it to be quite so eventful.”
    “Make a fine comedy,” Marcus said,
    “I think the world is often like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “Comic, but only at the right distance.”
    “Likely true,” Marcus said as he handed the money to Master Kit. “What are you going to do now?”
    “I suspect Porte Oliva’s as good a venue as any, and suppose we’ll try our luck at our original trade. After a bit of a rest, maybe. There’s a long tradition of puppeteers here, and I’m hoping we might be able to recruit a new actor or two with those skills.”
    “It was good working with you,” Marcus said. “Went better than I expected, considering. I expect I’ll see you about the city. We’ll stay until thaw.”
    “Thank you for not emasculating Sandr. I still hope to make a decent leading man of him one day.”
    “Luck with that,” Marcus said.
    “Take care of yourself, Captain Wester,” Master Kit said. “I find you a fascinating man.”
    And that was over as well. To his left, the caravan master was passing to each cart in turn, taking signatures and inventories. Yardem appeared at Marcus’s side.
    “We’ll need men,” the Tralgu said.
    “And a cunning man. But there’s not a war on here. We’ll find some.”
    The Tralgu flicked a jingling ear.
    “Are you going to let the girl hire us, sir?”
    Marcus took a deep breath. The city smelled of horse shit, fish, and brine. Haze left the sky more white than blue. He exhaled slowly.
    “No,” he said.
    They stood together. The ’van master reached her cart. Cithrin stood before him like a prisoner before a magistrate, spine straight, eyes ahead of her. Alone in a city she didn’t know, without protector or path.
    “We could leave now,” Yardem said.
    Marcus shook his head.
    “She deserves to hear it.”
    The ’van master moved on. Marcus looked to the Tralgu, the girl, spat, and went to her.
Do it,
he told himself,
and get the worst behind and on to the next thing.
The girl looked up as he came, her eyes unfocused and glassy with exhaustion, her skin even paler than usual. And yet she lifted her chin a degree.
    “Captain,” she said.
    “Yes,” he said. “Yardem and I. We can’t work for you.”
    “All right,” she said. For all her reaction, he might have told her the sun rose in the morning.
    “My advice, take as much as you can carry, leave the rest, and take ship out to Lyoniea or Far Syramis. Start over.”
    The ’van master whistled. The first cart pulled away. The caravan officially ended. The carts around them began to shift and squeak, each bound for its own market, its own quarter. Even the players were moving off now, Sandr and Smit walking with the mules to clear the way. Cithrin bel Sarcour, orphan and ward of the Medean bank, novice smuggler, almost woman, looked at him with tired eyes.
    “Good luck,” he said, and walked away.
    T he salt quarter of Porte Oliva was, as Master Kit had said, inhabited by puppets. Street performers seemed to be at every other corner, crouched behind or within boxes, hectoring the passersby in the voices of their dolls. Some were the standard race humor of PennyPenny the violent Jurasu and the clever Timzinae Roaches. Some