The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

said. “We’ve only just come here after all. You should go on without us.”
    The Dartinae shrugged. “Your choice. If you’re warm enough now, you should ask old Kirot for some soup and beer. You’re paying a horse for it.”
    “Cheap at the price,” Marcus said.
    The evening was spent talking with the Antean men and bringing the players back to themselves. Once they were recovered, Sandr and Kit put on a mock poetry competition that drew a bit of a crowd. Marcus sat by the fire drinking his beer and watching. The Haaverkin laughed at different times than Marcus expected them to, and watching Sandr and Kit respond to that, shaping their performance as they went, had a kind of beauty to it. Dar Cinlama, apart from being a little more impressed with himself than Marcus was with him, seemed a decent man. Eventually the fire burned low and the Haaverkin started bedding down on the floor of the lodge house. Dar Cinlama and the Anteans did the same, and before long the players were also in a little group, curled up under blankets together for warmth and comfort in strange surroundings. With the voices all gone quiet, Marcus could hear the storm still shrieking and ripping at the walls of the place. The glow of the embers and low flames in the great hearth threw ruddy shadows across the ceiling and along the walls.
    He waited until he was almost certain that the others were asleep, then took himself through a short passage to a latrine that had been hacked out of the frozen ground. When he came back, rather than pulling the blankets over himself, he went to find Kit. As he’d expected, Kit’s eyes were open and bright.
    “Well,” Marcus said. “Seems our friend may not have found the thing he was looking for.”
    “No, he hasn’t,” Kit said. “And more, I think he’s close to giving up the chase. At least so far as this part of the world goes.”
    “Think he’s wise in that?”
    “No,” Kit said, his voice so low it was hardly audible even inches from his lips. “No, I think he’s being kept from it. Kirot was lying when he said there was nothing to be found here.”
    “Seems we’ve sung that song before,” Marcus said. “Are you up for another verse?”
    “Give us a week in Kirot’s company, and I think I can manage something.”
    “Good that we have the powers of chaos and madness on our side sometimes. Still, I don’t know what we’re going to do with another damned magic sword.”
    Cary muttered something, turned and stretched out one leg toward the dying fire.
    “It isn’t a sword,” Kit said. “And it isn’t a giant.”
    “What, then?”
    “I don’t know,” Kit said, his eyes bright and merry. “But I believe I can find out.”

Cithrin
    C ithrin lay in bed, her eyes focused on the ceiling. Focused on nothing. The pale ceiling looked blankly back down. The cracks in its plaster made shapes and faces. The pillow was too warm or else too cold. Another night without sleep. What did she need it for, anyway?
    At last she pulled herself up and went through a rough parody of her morning ablutions. When she came out into the corridor, she was as nearly herself as she was likely to become. And in truth, very few people if anyone would notice how poorly she felt. It was the advantage of living a life of professional deceit that she could choose how much to show and how much to keep to herself. It was one of her primary skills. No one would see how she felt. Or that, at least, was the thought.
    “You all right, Magistra?” Enen asked as soon as Cithrin stepped into the dining room. The smell of eggs and fish and peppers assaulted Cithrin’s nose, but she didn’t gag.
    “Fine,” she said, sitting across from the Kurtadam woman. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
    “Anticipating the Lord Regent’s arrival.”
    Cithrin’s smile felt painted on and chipped at the edges.
    “I suppose I am,” she said amiably.
    The runners said that Palliako was still a day and a half away, and on the march. He was being accompanied by three hundred sword-and-bows detached from the siege at Kiaria for the sole purpose of seeing that he arrived safely on her doorstep. She didn’t know whether to feel flattered. Every day since she’d had Geder’s letter from Kiaria had been a little harder than the one before, but she told herself that once he had arrived and she could fall into the role she’d prepared for herself, it would be better.
    “Where’s Yardem?” Cithrin asked, more as a way to