The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

respects to the bank. It was about fear, and the joy that comes in the shadow of fear. It was about celebrating a night when Suddapal was free, and the clear knowledge that such nights might be countably few. It was as intoxicating as the wine.
    When she paused to find some water and meat and give her head a moment to clear, she saw Yardem standing at the entrance to the compound, his ears canted forward. Magistra Isadau stood before him, looking up, her arms folded. She didn’t need to hear the words to know what they were saying. She was gathering herself up, ready to go explain her decision to stay and dress Yardem down for interfering, when a voice speaking her name interrupted her.
    Salan, Jurin’s son, stood before her. In the light from the torches, he looked older than he was. He held himself upright, his bearing almost military, and his clothes had the look of a uniform without actually being one.
    “Magistra Cithrin,” he said again. His breath smelled of wine, and he spoke with the careful diction that came of consciously not slurring his words. “I hoped I might have a word with you.”
    Oh, this can’t be good , Cithrin thought. But she only said, “Of course, Salan. How can I help you?”
    The boy frowned. Cithrin felt her heart squeeze a little tighter with dread. It was such a pleasant evening, and a young man humiliating himself wasn’t going to improve it. If she had excused herself, maybe she could have avoided this for them both, but now it was too late.
    “I know that I am a child to you. My …” He looked down, searching for a word. The nictitating membranes slid closed and open again. “My affection toward you isn’t something to be taken seriously. I understand that.”
    “Salan—”
    “I have volunteered to go with Karol Dannien and his company to Kiaria. I leave within the week. And I didn’t want to leave with you thinking of me as the idiot boy with the hopeless puppy love. It’s not how I want to be remembered. If I could choose to feel differently about you, I would. If I could choose not to embarrass you and myself, I would. I don’t mean to be laughable.”
    “I haven’t laughed,” Cithrin said. “Credit me that much.”
    “I … of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse. I only wanted …” He shook his head, then held out his clenched fist, knuckles up. It took Cithrin a moment to realize he was giving her something. She put out her hand, and he released his grip. A thin strand of silver snaked onto her palm, a tiny worked figure. She held the necklace up. The figure was a thin silver bird, its wings outstretched. Cithrin shook her head, about to refuse the gift, when the boy spoke again. “Captain Dannien says we aren’t to bring personal items with us. I was hoping you could hold this safe for me. Until the war’s over.”
    Until the war’s over.
    The Antean armies hadn’t crossed into Elassae. Inentai, at last word, hadn’t fallen. And still, it was a given that the war would come. And its end was so uncertain that until the war’s over could sound like forever . Salan’s black eyes met hers. If she laughed now, he would hate her. He would be right to.
    “Of course,” she said. “I’ll be pleased to.”
    “Thank you, Magistra,” he said, with a small bow, then hesitated, turned, and walked stiffly away. Cithrin fastened the necklace, letting the small silver bird rest just below her collarbone. It was so light and fine, she could almost forget it was there. Almost.
    The music and dancing went on, the wine and the beer. The night grew a few degrees cooler. Cithrin willed herself to enjoy it, to throw herself into the revelry and celebrate Halvill and Maha being young and stupid and making decisions that would shape the rest of their lives without so much as a moment’s consideration. Then she remembered a time not so many years ago when she’d lain down beside an ice-bound pond with an actor. If God hadn’t sent Marcus Wester at the right moment, she might have Sandr’s son on her hip right now, so perhaps she wasn’t in a position to pass judgment.
    The revel ran on, and Cithrin drank and danced, but some of the joy had gone out of it. Given the Timzinae’s small need for sleep, it was quite possible that the music would go on until dawn drowned the torches, but it would have to do so without her. She sought out Halvill and Maha, gave them small presents of her own because custom required it, and then retreated to her own rooms.