The King's Blood

got.”
    “I appreciate that.”
    For a moment, Marcus was silent, searching for some other word to say. Instead, he clapped the man on the shoulder and left his half-drunk cup on the bench beside him. It wasn’t a long walk to the counting house, but Marcus took it slowly. He hadn’t had the opportunity to refuse work since he’d taken up with Cithrin bel Sarcour and her bank. As he stepped around the horse shit in the street and passed the queensmen in their uniforms of green and gold, it occurred to him for the first time that he might have already taken the last contract of his life.
    Working for the bank had no clear ending, no keep to be guarded through the summer or taken by autumn. His men weren’t soldiers but guards. Not even guards, sometimes, but a private force. Thumb-breakers for a moneylender. That wasn’t work that had to end.
    For a moment, he imagined himself decades in the future, walking down these same streets. Time would take his hair or turn it white. His joints would thicken and ache. Perhaps he’d find a woman who could put up with his moods and memories. He could work the company until he became so domestic and old and comfortable that he was nothing more than a mascot. The man who’d moved the world once, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him now. A future rolled out before him so clearly, he felt he could reach out and touch the old man’s shoulder.
    He had to stop for a moment and look up at the sky. This was what Canin Mise felt sitting in his debtor’s box, buried with his face in the air. This was what death was like. He almost turned back, going to find Master Kit and the cider and whatever madness had taken the old man, only because it wouldn’t be the story he’d seen before him.
    But it would mean leaving Cithrin. The counting house was only a couple of streets farther on, and he made himself walk there through simple will. Yardem was waiting for him outside, pacing anxiously.
    “Sir?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Is there anything—”
    “No, Yardem, there’s nothing . Nothing at all, ever, anywhere.”
    The Tralgu put his ears back. Marcus wanted to see anger in the man’s eyes or hurt or something besides concern. Concern looked too much like pity.
    “We’ve been doing very well, sir. The bank’s solid. The company’s underfunded just now, but they’re loyal and well trained. Pyk’s an annoyance more than a problem. If you look at where we’ve come since Ellis—”
    “You’re not about to feed me some hairwash about how my soul’s a circle, and I’m at the top turning down, are you?”
    Yardem’s hesitation meant yes.
    “No, sir,” he said.

Clara
     
    T
    hankfully, Jorey managed to deflect Geder Palliako from using his friends from the Keshet, and so the ceremony was at the high temple, and scheduled for the day after Canl Daskellin’s fireshow had opened the season. It allowed very little time, however, to follow all the forms. Clara had arranged two dinners with Lady Skestinin, and one with both families. Lord Skestinin hadn’t arrived until the morning of the event, and had all but abandoned the fleet to manage that much. Barriath had come with him, and Vicarian had special dispensation to leave his studies and attend the ceremony as well, so all her boys were there on the day. The chances were fair that they would even behave themselves for the most part. For Sabiha’s sake more than Jorey’s.
    In fact, if Jorey had chosen a lover specifically to make his brothers behave, he could hardly have done better. The hint of scandal and disapproval that hung over the occasion would, Clara thought, bring the boys together where a match with someone above reproach would have begged for teasing. And really, once the teasing started, there were lines the boys would cross before they knew they existed.
    Elisia, on the other hand, had sent regrets. As odd as it felt to hope her daughter was ill, Clara preferred to believe she really did have the flux. People recovered from the flux, after all. Shame and disloyalty were harder to overcome. But that was a problem for another day. The work at hand was more than enough to keep her occupied.
    The temple itself was perfect.
    The great circle of the floor was white marble carved generations ago and worn smooth as water. The altar stood black and green in the center, the great vaulted dome rising above it. The archways were carved as dragon’s wings, surrounding and enveloping the wide, white air. Clara