The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

however they solve it, and they can’t be betrayed, because we won’t know.”
    “They’ll send assassins,” Isadau said. “The Anteans will send men to kill whoever does it. They’ll send their filthy priests.”
    “So we have guards and make them cut thumbs, just like on any contract,” Cithrin said. Then, to Marcus, “I can draw up a full plan in a day or so. If Komme approves it, we can have it in place before the first frost.”
    “And how would we tell people?” Isadau snapped.
    “Piece of chalk, and a dark night, and as many walls as you can reach,” Marcus said. “Best not to get caught, but that’s going to be true of any of this.”
    “And it doesn’t have to be only the children,” Cithrin said, her voice a mix of contemplation and pleasure. “We can put bounties on anything we want done. Bring proof that you’ve killed an Antean soldier or stolen their food or interfered with the flow of orders. The same coins can pay for any number of things. That’s what makes them dangerous. Of course, it’ll be messy. We’ll have to expect a certain amount of fraud. Unless … If we had Master Kit—”
    “It’s a good thought,” Marcus said, “but we’ve only got one of him, and I’ll need him worse.”
    Cithrin’s expression fell. He’d guessed it might. He tried to ignore the knot of guilt under his ribs. He ran his fingertips against the grain of the tabletop and waited for her to speak.
    “Need him,” Cithrin said, trying to keep her tone light. Merely curious. “What for?”
    “Job hasn’t changed,” Marcus said. “We have to kill the goddess. I’m taking Kit to Camnipol. We’ll see if we can’t find that mysterious source of yours and learn what we can about the expeditions they sent out. What they’re looking for. Whether they’ve found anything.”
    Isadau’s voice was harsh. “You’d take the one man we have who can match their power and run after shadows?”
    “I’d take the sword too.”
    “Why?” Cithrin asked.
    “May want to kill some priests.”
    “No, I mean why would you go to Camnipol? Why that?”
    Marcus took a deep breath. In the street, a mule brayed.
    “Did Yardem ever tell you about Gradis?”
    “No,” Cithrin said. “I’ve only heard the name when they called you the hero of Wodford and Gradis.”
    “All right, so this was the second year of the war between Lady Tracian and Lord Springmere. I was still dancing Springmere’s tune, idiot that I was. Gradis is a keep in the middle of a mountain pass. Dragon’s road runs right through it. Lady Tracian had it, and if she’d kept it, her supply lines would have been solid as stone. The thing was, she had about as many men as I did, and she had position. So I sent out a force just outside arrow’s range. Not a big one, but with all the banners. Springmere rode with it. I was there. Our three greatest allies, and not just their men, but them in person. Well, Lady Tracian saw us all out there like something out of a poem, and she knew she could take us. Sent her men out after us. So we fought for bit, and I sounded the retreat. We pulled back about half a league and reformed. Her men reformed, and we did it again. Better part of a day, she beat us back and back and back. And when she was pulled far enough back, all the sword-and-bows we’d left behind poured in and took the keep. No banners. No great men. Hardly any cavalry. Just the right force in the right place at the right time to win the fight that mattered.”
    “I see,” Cithrin said.
    “I don’t,” Isadau said.
    Marcus scratched his neck and accidentally set his cut to bleeding again. “Normal strategy is going to lose. As long as they have the priests, we’re Lady Tracian winning battles and losing the war. But they have a weakness. Something that scares them. I don’t know what it is. As drunk on their own stories as they are, I’m not sure they do either. But whatever they’re looking for, I’m betting it’s the little force in the background that actually matters.”
    “When,” Cithrin said, then coughed. “When will you go?”
    “Don’t see much advantage in waiting.”
    She swallowed. He had known her so long, he could see the mask slipping into place, and it left him aching.
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “For what?” Cithrin bel Sarcour, voice of the Medean bank in Porte Oliva, asked him. Her tone was a thing of ledgers and contracts. Hearing her pull away from him ached, but there was nothing to be done