The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

comfortable there.
    He sat beside the water, his little pack at his side. He’d wrapped the sword in cloth and bound it with leather straps. No particular use if he wanted to draw the thing, but there was less chance he’d need its use if it wasn’t obvious he was hauling magical treasures from the Dragon Empire about with him. His own blade still hung from his hip, though in a new scabbard. The old one had rotted through with his clothes. The sand-colored cotton robes they’d bought on the Lyoneian coast weren’t so different a cut from the local. Kit made his way through the camps, listening and talking, being charming and using the power of the spider goddess to ingratiate himself to the carters and guards and nomadic hunters. Marcus only saw him when he came back with money or a bowl of boiled millet and roasted goat.
    “What’re we looking at?” Marcus asked, biting into the meat.
    “I think it could be worse,” Kit said softly enough that his words didn’t carry. “I haven’t found anyone heading in our direction, but I have been promised a mule for a reasonable price.”
    “That’s the good news?
    “That and no one seems to have decided to kill us and take our things.”
    “Counts as a good day, then,” Marcus said. “Let’s go meet our new mule.”
    It was a good mule, as mules go, sturdy across the shoulder and placid-eyed. Marcus and Kit had little to carry besides sleeping rolls, food, and waterskins. The Yemmu man who’d agreed to sell it lumbered along behind Marcus as he looked the animal over, his expression vaguely disgruntled as if he might be regretting the agreement.
    “He limps sometimes,” the Yemmu said. “Have to rest him for a day or two so he don’t go lame.”
    “I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Kit said in a pleasant voice that meant the man was lying. The more Marcus saw the spider goddess’s power in action, the more useful it seemed to be. Not much in a battle, maybe, but in everything that came before and after. And in his experience, before and after were what determined who bled in the field.
    “Marcus?” Kit said.
    “She’ll do,” Marcus said, putting his hand on the beast’s shoulder. The mule didn’t respond even to look at him. “Get us where we’re headed, anyway.”
    The Yemmu sighed and accepted a pouch of coins from Kit. They stood together as the huge man counted through the silver and copper, nodded to himself, and waved at the beast.
    “She’s yours now,” he said. “Too damn small to be any use to me anyway. Where you poor bastards going anyhow?”
    “Borja,” Marcus said.
    “Trying to keep clear of the war, then,” the Yemmu said. “That’s wise. Uglier than a camel’s asshole, that is.”
    “There’s a charming image,” Marcus said.
    “Have you had word from the west, then?” Kit said before the Yemmu could reply. “I have friends in Sarakal, and I’d be glad of any news.”
    The man’s shrug was massive.
    “Had word. Don’t know how much of it’s true. Say Nus fell and the fucking empire stripped the damn place to the walls. Put half the city in chains for their crimes.”
    Marcus lifted an eyebrow. A black fly as thick as his finger settled on the mule’s ear, and the mule twitched it away.
    “That’s a fair load of crimes, if you’re depriving half a city of their freedom over it,” Marcus said.
    “Timzinae were behind the coup last year,” the Yemmu man explained. “New Lord Regent took it personal. He’s a strange one. Stories are he’s some kind of cunning man, only more powerful than I’ve ever heard. Talks with the spirits of the dead’s what they say. Dead march with him. It’s why he can keep going. No one thought he’d win as far as he has. No one’s sure when he’ll stop.”
    No one’s sure if he will hung in the air, unspoken.
    “Inentai’s a hard city to take,” Marcus said. “Anteans will be getting harassed by the locals and river raiders from Borja. Supply lines’ll be vulnerable.”
    “Oh, and you know all about war, do you?”
    “Some,” Marcus said.
    “Well. Probably you’re right. Can’t see it going over the winter. So long as the bugs can hold out until then, the empire’ll go home by first frost.” The Yemmu man nodded, agreeing with himself. Talking himself into believing what he only hoped was true.
    T he Keshet spread out before them, dry and vast. The shallow hills rose and fell, their sides green and grey from the thick-stemmed, tough brush. In the