The King's Blood

said, folding the map and tucking it in his belt. “Good talking with you.”
    “We’ll be seeing you again, I hope?”
    Marcus ducked through the door and Yardem fell in behind him. The sea stretched out to the south, the calm grey of lead. The last red and gold of sunset still haunted the western horizon. Part of him wanted to take the horse now, go farther west. The cove wouldn’t be farther than the two of them could ride by midnight. In the worst case, they’d be discovered, and then at least there’d be a fight.
    But his men were in Porte Oliva. And Cithrin was waiting for word. Going farther was a risk he didn’t need to take, not now, but it was a temptation. A restlessness looking for escape.
    “Sir?”
    Let’s just take a look floated at the back of his tongue.
    “We head to the city,” he said. “We’ll get some blades behind us and come back.”
    Yardem’s ears rose.
    “What? That’s a surprise?”
    “Almost expected we’d be going on, sir.”
    “That’d be stupid.”
    “I don’t disagree, sir. Just thought it might be the mistake we made.”
    Marcus shrugged and headed back for the horses, troubled by the knowledge that if he’d been alone, he would have done it.
    They made camp in a stand of green oaks, their horses tied to an ancient altar tucked away among the trees, ivy-covered, eroded and forgotten. In the morning, Marcus broke the night’s fast with a strip of salt-dried goat and a handful of limp springpeas still in the pod. Approaching Porte Oliva from the west was harder terrain than it looked. The hills were green with grass and heather, but it was uneven. Broken stones hid everywhere, ready to turn under a misplaced hoof. There was a story that a king of Old Cabral had launched an invasion of Birancour along this coast, only to have his cavalry lamed before the first battle. Marcus didn’t believe it, but he didn’t disbelieve it either.
    The high, pale walls seemed darker with the sun behind them. The traffic into and out of the city was choked with beggars, but he was well enough known in the city now that they bothered him less. That group of liars and thieves were better attuned to travelers, as if by smelling of Porte Oliva he were already complicit in the wrenching stories of sick babies and the twisted legs that worked better when no one was looking. To be ignored by the beggars was a mark of citizenship, and even though it was invisible, Marcus wore it now. In the midst of the stalls and the houses and the complex web of streets, he passed through the fortification wall and then into the city proper.
    Marcus was just leaving the stables when an unexpected voice called his name. By the mouth of a small side street stood a long-faced man with tall, wiry hair and the olive complexion of Pût. He wore a simple brown robe and carried a walking staff that was black from use where he held it. For the first time in weeks, Marcus felt a grin come to his mouth unbidden.
    “Kit? What are you doing here?”
    “I hoped I would find you, actually,” the master actor said. “And Yardem Hane! I am pleased to see you again. I think the city life must be agreeing with you, yes? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you looking so healthy.”
    “He means fat,” Marcus said.
    “Knew what he meant, sir,” Yardem said, feigning displeasure. Then he broke into a wide, canine grin. “I didn’t expect the company to come back so soon.”
    Master Kit hesitated.
    “They haven’t. I’ve been traveling on my own. I was hoping to talk to you about that, Marcus. If you have time for it. If you have business with Yardem, of course, I wouldn’t want to interrupt it.”
    Marcus glanced over at Yardem. He saw from the angle of the Tralgu’s head that he’d heard the same thing. The request for a private meeting, even without his second. Yardem shrugged.
    “I’ll make the report to the magistra,” Yardem said.
    “Would you be kind enough not to mention seeing me?” Kit asked.
    Yardem’s ears were at high alert now. Marcus nodded once.
    “If you’d like,” Yardem said. “I’ll be at the counting house, sir.”
    “I’ll be along shortly,” Marcus said. “Soon as I find what Kit’s being so mysterious about.”
    The common house Kit led him to sat at the edge of a narrow square in the salt quarter. A dry fountain no more than a man’s height across stood at the center, still seeming too large for the space. Pigeons strutted and cooed and shat. Marcus and Kit shared a