The King's Blood

where the Jasuru scales hadn’t quite formed. Once, he had been Cithrin’s rival and lover, and that he couldn’t father children had been the only thing Marcus liked about him.
    “Buy you men a round?” Qahuar Em asked, and then waited for an answer.
    “Why not?” Marcus said, shifting on the bench.
    Qahuar shouted to a harried serving boy and gestured toward the little knot of guards before he sat. His smile was both practiced and sincere. He was a difficult man to dislike. That was his job.
    “The magistra seems to be missing the season,” Qahuar said.
    “Pressing work in Carse,” Marcus said. “Don’t know much about it. Just poor soldiers, us.” Qahuar Em laughed, because they both knew better. “I heard your escort fleet hasn’t gone as well as planned.”
    “We knew it would take a few years before we saw profit,” Qahuar Em said, with a shrug. “ I heard that I might have some gratitude to offer you, though.”
    “Always sorry for that,” Marcus said, his smile pulling the sting of the words, but only a little.
    The serving boy came, a tray held above his head as he threaded his way through the crowd, and delivered mugs of last year’s cider to the five men. It was sweet and crisp and the fumes from his first mouthful went to Marcus’s head so that he only sipped it after that.
    “The story goes that half the pirates between Cabral and here have moved elsewhere because the famed General Wester has been attacking them in their sleep and burning all their boats.”
    “Exaggeration,” Marcus said. “Burned one boat once. But you know how these stories go. By next year, I’ll have lit the ocean on fire and anyone who loses a cargo someplace besides here will say it’s my fault for pushing the pirates in their way.”
    “Likely true,” Qahuar said, and someone at the far end of the yard called his name. He looked up and waved at a Firstblood woman in a blue cotton gown, but he muttered something under his breath as he did it.
    “Friend of yours?” Marcus asked.
    “Client,” Qahuar said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to—”
    “We’ll drink your cider without you,” Ahariel said with a broad smile. “Think of you while we do it.”
    “Good man,” Qahuar Em said, rising to his feet. He clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Give the magistra my regards when you see her. The game’s less interesting without her.”
    “She’ll be pleased to hear it,” Marcus said, and watched the man walk away. He knew his animosity wasn’t entirely fair. Porte Oliva thought Cithrin to be older than she was. Marcus knew Qahuar Em had been sleeping with a girl barely more than a child, but even the half-Jasuru didn’t.
    “Hm,” Hart said. “I’d say the captain’s got an admirer.”
    The woman in the blue gown was speaking with Qahuar. She glanced back toward Marcus as Qahuar nodded, then she looked away perhaps a bit too quickly. She was too old to be pretty, but so was he. And she was handsome. Younger than Alys would have been, Marcus guessed, and older than Merian. Marcus sighed and handed his mug across to Yardem. The rain plastered her dress to her body, much as it did with everyone.
    “You boys behave,” Marcus said, standing.
    “You’re going for an introduction?” Hart asked with a leer.
    “I’m going for a walk.”
    The streets were less crowded than the courtyard had been, but they were just as hot, just as damp. Horses and oxen pulled carts across filthy pavement, their heads hung low and heat spume on their lips. Men with hands on sword pommel walked beside loads of silk and spice, gold and tobacco leaf come from Far Syramys. The air smelled of horse shit and rotting vegetables and curry. All familiar, Marcus thought, but he wouldn’t go so far as to say it smelled like home. Having no place in mind he cared to be, he found himself falling into a lonely patrol. The bank warehouse was open, bills of lading being compared with a cartful of crates. Enen and Roach waved to him as he passed. The barracks was nearly empty, the heat of the day making the interior unpleasant, but several of his guards sat in the shade of the building playing music and telling one another unlikely stories of battle or sexual misadventure. The counting house was open, the planter of tulips that Cithrin had put out when they had first purchased the building was a splash of celebratory red and pink.
    Inside, Pyk was squatting on a stool, her legs splayed. Sweat ran down her face and stained her