The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

slower song.
    “Marcus left when I was gone away to Camnipol.”
    “Yes,” Kit said. “That must have been hard for you, his disappearing that way.”
    “I was fine,” Cithrin said. Then, “God, you know that was a lie, don’t you?”
    “Yes,” Kit said. “But it’s one that speaks well of you both.”
    “Having him back … just back. It’s like Magister Imaniel popping up out of the grave and coming to the dinner table. Magister Imaniel or else …”
    “Or else your father?”
    “I didn’t know my father,” Cithrin said.
    “Ah yes. I remember that,” Kit said. They were silent for a time.
    “Can I ask you something?”
    “Of course,” Kit said.
    “Basrahip. The priests. If they were looking for something, what would it be?”
    “What do you mean, looking for?”
    “Sending out hunting parties. Looking in the empty places in the world.”
    “Well,” Kit said, then took a long, deep breath, giving himself time to think. “I think we have established that I may not have perfect insight into the workings of the priesthood. But I would think they were looking for other remnants of the dragons’ power. Something like the Timzinae or the sword that Marcus and I recovered. Are they? Looking, I mean.”
    “I think so,” Cithrin said. “We’ve been getting reports from someone in Camnipol. We aren’t sure who. But one of the things he said was that there were expeditions going out. And one of them is being led by a Dartinae man I almost worked with in Porte Oliva. He gave me a dragon’s tooth.”
    “Did he really?” Master Kit asked.
    “I think he did,” Cithrin said. “I suppose it could be a fake.”
    “I wonder …” Kit said.
    “I could show it to you.”
    “What? Oh, thank you, but no. I was remembering something Marcus said about men like me being driven into hiding once. A very long time ago. If my former companions are searching for something, I imagine it’s because they want to possess it or destroy it. Either way … What do we know about this man in Camnipol?”
    “Almost nothing,” Cithrin said. “If Isadau doesn’t object, I can show you the reports.”
    “I would very much like that.”
    Cithrin felt a thickness in her throat, a sudden welling up of sorrow. Master Kit’s brows furrowed and he took her hand. Cithrin shook her head until she could find her voice. When she did speak, the words were thick.
    “Now that he’s started this, he’s not going to stay,” she said. “Is he?”
    Comprehension washed over Master Kit’s face. He looked down.
    “I expect Captain Wester will remain here to protect the compound as best he can until the city’s fallen. Beyond that, I don’t know,” he said, and then chuckled ruefully. “In truth, Cithrin, these days I feel I don’t know anything.”
    T he armies of Antea arrived in the morning unopposed. It was understood that the fighting would be in Kiaria, where the soldiers had gone. Even a token resistance to the invaders in Suddapal would have meant a few dozen corpses and nothing more. They didn’t even try. The morning sun slanted down over the roofs and tent-thick commons. The Antean carts rolled through the streets, and soldiers marched behind them. Timzinae refugees who had left their homes behind to escape this same army sat quietly at the sides of the roads. Cithrin stood by the compound’s wall and watched. After so long, the mass of Firstblood faces seemed wrong. Out of place.
    “Don’t stare, ma’am,” Yardem said. “Someone might take offense.”
    “And what if they do?”
    Marcus answered. His voice was tired.
    “There’s still going to be a sack. If we’re lucky, it’ll be a short one, and centered someplace else.”
    “What?” Cithrin said. “The soldiers just loot the place? Go through like bandits and take what they want?”
    “If we’re lucky,” Marcus said again.
    “We’ll stand against them,” Cithrin said.
    “We’ll take everything of value in the compound,” Marcus said, “put it in the yard here, bar the doors, guard the windows, and hope for the best. This is going to be a bad night.”
    He was right. It was. Through all the long hours of the night, Cithrin sat with Isadau in the relative safety of her office, reading by a small brass lamp, and remembering none of the words. The guards—Yardem, Enen, Marcus, and even Master Kit included—kept watch. Once, near midnight, voices came from the streets, a mad whooping followed by screams and then the sounds of