The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

could. And more than that, he could pass unremarked by the new masters of Suddapal because he looked like them. Even Enen and Yardem, not technically bound by the curfew, would be noticed for their race. Marcus looked like what he was, a Firstblood soldier out of uniform and a little long in the tooth. He looked like nobody. He could ferry messages between the elements of Magistra Isadau’s shadow company with less danger than anyone else in the branch.
    Or at least less danger from the invaders.
    “Isadau sent me,” Marcus said, his hands at his shoulders, palms out. The blade pressed against his throat.
    “The hell she did,” the Timzinae man holding it said.
    “My name is Marcus Wester. I’m guard captain for the Porte Oliva branch.” It might not be true, but going into the complexities of his employment seemed like a poor decision. “I came here with Magistra bel Sarcour.”
    “Prove it.”
    “You have seven children hidden in the attic right now. You sent the message this afternoon as a letter asking about a loan for a new millstone.”
    The blade came tighter, drawing a trickle of blood. The compound around him was less than a fifth of the bank’s size. Hardly bigger than a Northcoast farmhouse. They were in the dining room, the remnants of the night’s meal still on wooden plates. In addition to the man presently in position to open his throat, there were four by the benches with knives. This, Marcus thought, would be a profoundly stupid way to die.
    “System could have broken,” the man behind him hissed. “Been intercepted. How do I know you’re not one of them?”
    “Because I don’t have fifty Antean soldiers outside throwing lit torches through the windows and putting arrows in anyone who runs out,” Marcus said. “Why would they bother trying to trick you?”
    There was a long pause. The blade went away, and Marcus put his hand to his neck. The cut wasn’t much worse than he’d do to himself shaving, but it was embarrassing to have been overcome. His reflexes were getting slower. He wondered if it was another effect of the poisoned sword he’d left with Yardem and Kit or just the creeping in of age.
    “Sorry,” the man said, wiping his blade clean of Marcus’s blood. “Can’t be too careful.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” Marcus said. “I have a message from the magistra. There’s a ship going out to Pût tomorrow just before noon. Captain’s name is Brust. His ship’s got a double hull.”
    “A fucking smuggler, then,” one of the men at the table said and spat. “I hate smugglers.”
    “What exactly do you think it is we’re doing ?” Marcus said crossly, and a pounding came at the street door. The Timzinae froze.
    “In the name of the Protector, open the door!” a voice called. The accent was Antean. The man who’d been ready to kill Marcus moments before pushed him back into a pantry closet.
    “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t make a damned sound or you’ll get us all killed.”
    Marcus nodded and pulled the door almost shut. Through the slit he left himself, he could hear the doors open and the Anteans pushing in. The voices were harsh, pressing in over each other. Marcus wondered if the children hiding above him could hear it all too.
    “We had a report. Someone came here in violation of the curfew,” a new voice said, and Marcus felt his blood go cold. He peeked out. The man wore no armor, but brown robes. His wiry hair was pulled back and his long face could have been Kit’s twenty years ago. One of the priests. The man with the blade drew in his breath to lie and doom them all and Marcus stepped out of the closet.
    “That was likely me,” he said.
    “And who are you?” the priest said. There were four more Antean blades behind him, and God knew how many waiting in the street.
    “Marcus Wester. I work for the Medean bank.”
    The priest’s eyes narrowed as he consulted the spiders in his blood. Marcus’s flesh crawled a little, just thinking about it. Behind him two of the Firstblood men exchanged a glance. Nice to have the name recognized.
    “What are you doing?” the blade man said.
    “Telling the truth,” Marcus said, and stopped himself before he went on with, We have nothing to hide . Because of course they did.
    “Why are you here?” the priest asked.
    “Business. The magistra had a note this afternoon about a loan for a new millstone. She wanted me to follow up on it since she can’t. Curfew and all.”
    “A millstone?