The King's Blood

thought he knew before and was just playing along. Spent a year finishing the war and letting Springmere get himself king and feel like he was safe before he brought the bastard down.”
    “Might have been. There anything left in that skin?”
    Cithrin heard the sloshing of wine. The blades of grass at the camp’s edge shifted in near-silence, and she realized she’d opened her eyes again. Scowling, she pressed them closed.
    “One way or the other, Springmere gets himself made king of Northcoast, starts riding back for Carse, ready to take control of the place. Sitting in his tent, making lists of all the heads he’s going to chop off, when the captain comes in and explains how he knows what happened. Next thing anyone knows, Wester’s drenched in blood with an axe in his hand. Walks to the stocks, chops Lady Tracian loose, and gives her this crown that’s still got bits of Springmere on it, says it’s hers now for all he cares. And after that… gone. Steps out of history until there he was in Porte Oliva hiring guards for the magistra.”
    The round, hissing sound of wine being squirted into someone’s mouth.
    “You think he’s in love with the magistra?”
    “Barth! She’s—”
    “Ah, she’s asleep for hours. Seriously, though. Here he is, could build himself a private army, take garrison work at four, five times what we’re making now. But he stays there. There’s half the girls in the taproom would lay back for him, and he’s careful as glass never to let any of them think he means anything.”
    “No, it’s just he’s still being faithful to his dead wife. Can’t be with a woman except he starts thinking about her.”
    “Eh, I think he’s mad for the magistra.”
    “I’m telling you it’s old grief turned to stone in him,” Corisen Mout said. “Besides, the magistra’s a sweet face, but she’s got no tits.”
    “Oh, brother mine,” Barth said with a chuckle, “you had best pray she’s asleep—”
    “I’m not,” Cithrin said.
    The silence seemed to last forever. She pulled herself out of the tent, then stood. The starlight leached the two men of all color. Their expressions were contrite. The wineskin was in Barth’s hand. She walked over and took it from him.
    “You’ve had more than enough. Sleep now,” she said. “Both of you.”
    Without another word, the two men curled up in their bedrolls. Cithrin stood over them until she started to feel ridiculous and then went back to her little tent. The conversation had stopped, but Cithrin lay in the darkness awake all the same. The wine wasn’t the best she’d had, but it wasn’t the worst. After half the skin, it began to loosen the knot in her belly, the way she remembered it doing the first time she’d taken to the road. Her eyes closed more easily now with the alcohol softening her body and making everything seem slightly more benign. When her mind turned to Marcus—he couldn’t be in love with her, could he? It would be like Magister Imaniel wanting her as a bride. He was handsome enough, but he was so old—she consciously turned toward the fine work of trade. The losses for the Stormcrow were going to be listed in the report, but the gains from its recovery wouldn’t. She needed to make sure they knew that at the holding company. And that Pyk hadn’t wanted to invoke salvage on the recovered cargo that wasn’t part of their insurance contract.
    She began to wonder how a contract would be worded to protect recovered goods from then being recovered by someone else. It would be possible, she supposed, but she hadn’t seen it done. She’d need to know what the magistrates thought about it. If they were all agreed that Pyk was wrong and the salvage legitimate, the bank could offer very good rates on the contract. Full coverage for ten percent only sounds wise if there’s a chance the contract will be enforced…
    Slowly, Cithrin felt her mind drifting out from under her, the wine and the distraction of contracts mixing with the hushing grass. She realized that her eyes had been closed for some time now, and without her effort. Half sleeping, she capped the wineskin, rolled over, and let her body sink in toward the trampled grass. Another few days to Sara-sur-Mar. Then the ship. And then Carse, and some way to con vince them all to take Pyk Usterhall, drop her down a well, and give the bank back to Cithrin.

Dawson
     
    T
    he army left Camnipol a week after Lord Ashford’s hands. With so little time, it was a